


Haven't Forgotten My Way Home

by tryslora



Series: Weavers [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dreams, F/M, Future Fic, Kid Fic, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Single Parents, Weaving, coming home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:22:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 46
Words: 100,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles walked away from Beacon Hills and never planned on coming home. Now he needs help, and there's nowhere else he can go other than back to his childhood home and the pack he left behind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work in progress is tagged with the relationship(s) and rating that will be coming, but it doesn't start out that way. Be patient, it'll get there! Thank you muchly to teas_me for holding my hand and cheering me along the way. As always, I don't own Teen Wolf, but I love to play with them.

Five years ago, Stiles never intended to come home again. 

He had walked out the door of the house he’d grown up in and refused to look back. Okay, maybe one look. One _glance_ as he drove away in a Jeep that was packed to the gills for college. Stiles remembers seeing Scott and Derek standing on the porch, Scott looking like someone had killed his best friend, and Derek glaring like only Derek could.

And maybe that was true for Scott. Things had _changed_ , and it had been in ways that Stiles couldn’t ever fix. His dad was dead and as far as Stiles was concerned, his life in Beacon Hills was over. He needed to leave. Start over. Become something different and walk the fuck away from all the supernatural bullshit that had changed _everything_.

So yeah, that totally explains why Stiles is now carefully closing the door on his brand new Kizashi (hey, it’s practical with a bit of kick in the engine, and it was cheap as hell during the big Suzuki inventory sell off) and touching the button to lock the door, parked right in front of what used to be the Stilinski house. He checks the windows (rolled down slightly) and the distance from the curb (should be safe, and the street’s not a busy one), then he reluctantly makes his way to the door.

It feels strange to ring the doorbell on what used to be his house, and he wonders if Scott left the key hidden under the garden fairy his mom stuck in the middle of the flowers what seems like forever ago. He knows they still live here; Scott sends him a Christmas card every year, and every year Stiles sends something back that says absolutely nothing about his life. For five years, that has been his only connection to Beacon Hills.

He hears the footsteps, and when the door doesn’t open, Stiles waves his hand in front of the peephole. “No reason to be afraid,” he says, knowing perfectly well that any member of the pack ought to be able to hear him through the door. “If anyone ought to be afraid here, it would be me. After all, you guys are the ones with the supernaturally long and pointy teeth.”

The door opens and Danny leans against the frame. “Not me.”

Okay, so _that_ wasn’t on Stiles’s list of expected things to be happening. “What are you doing in my house?”

“It’s not your house,” Danny reminds him. “It belongs to the pack.”

“Which you are not a part of.”

Both eyebrows go up. “Oh, so you’ve been keeping up on pack politics? It’s been five years, Stiles. A lot has changed in that time.”

And doesn’t Stiles know it. Beacon Hills seems like a lifetime away, and just being here is reducing him to the memory of a lanky kid who couldn’t sit still or stop talking, and who never quite knew what to say to people. “Scott sends cards.” Because that’s a helpful piece of data for Danny. “Seriously, you live here now?”

Danny’s laugh is dry. “I live here now. And I bet Scott says about as much in his cards as you say in yours. _Merry Christmas. Haven’t broken a leg yet skiing. Don’t let the wolves eat the tinsel; it’s bad for digestion. Love, Stiles._ ”

“And you love me so much you memorized it,” Stiles quips, although he thinks that one might have been a couple of years ago. It’s definitely not from last Christmas, which was spent in hiding and about to go on the run, shortly before the panicking _really_ started. That card had been even more neutral than before, hoping Scott wouldn’t try to find him.

Which, of course, explains why he’s here on Scott’s doorstep.

Stiles sighs. “Look, is Scott around? And is there any chance he’ll talk to me?”

“Scott’s at work.”

And that would be the voice that Stiles doesn’t want to hear. That gruff growl that is probably audible all the way to the curb. Stiles risks a glance back at the car, one ear cocked for sound, looking for any sign of movement. Nothing. He’s still safe.

“Hi, Derek, nice to see you again, too.” Stiles edges into the doorway, nudging it wide enough to see Derek lurking behind Danny. Silence, for a moment, then Danny moves out of the way, disappearing back into the house and Derek looms over Stiles.

Tries to loom. They’re almost the same exact height, and the looming thing isn’t working so well. In fact, it worked a lot better when Stiles was still young and impressionable. A lot’s changed in five years. 

“What’re you doing here, Stiles?”

“Nice way to say thank you for the house,” Stiles points out. “Can’t a guy come home to visit his friends?”

Derek’s smile is filled with teeth. “You’ve said maybe ten words to all of us in the last five years, Stiles. In fact, you gave the distinct impression that you were giving us the house because you wanted nothing at all to do with the pack anymore. So yes, I think you want something.”

That’s when Stiles hears a noise.

He sees Derek’s ears perk up, knows Derek hears it too.

The high pitched, tired, petulant call of, “Daddy!”

Stiles hesitates. Stay here and finish this out? Or capitulate and go back to the car where Molly seems to be more than awake as another call comes. He can see her small fist against the window, tapping, then waving as she smiles brightly.

And oh God, because yes, Derek sees her too.

Stiles swallows hard. “Look—”

Derek’s nose flares as he sniffs the air.

“There’s an explanation—”

Derek pushes past Stiles, stalking down the walkway. He leans his hands against the top of the car, his forehead pressed to the glass, nose just barely brushing the open slit where Stiles had left the window partly rolled down. He inhales again, his entire back rising with the breath. “Stiles.” His name is a low growl, rumbling as Stiles comes up behind him.

Stiles smiles at Molly, but she doesn’t seem afraid, her head cocked, watching Derek watch her.

“Why did you bring another pack’s pup?” Derek growls. “Why did you bring her _here_?”

“See, you’re not asking the right questions, Derek.” Stiles wedges one shoulder between Derek and the car door so he can yank it open and lean in, quickly unsnapping the car set. Molly tumbles into his arms and Stiles lifts her. Even at four, his daughter is small boned and easy to carry as she wraps her arms around his shoulders and holds on tight. _Now_ she plays shy, glancing at Derek before burying her face against Stiles’s shoulder. 

“This is Molly Stilinski. My daughter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story will be updated weekly on Sundays (with occasional mid-week Wednesday updates). The next update will be on Sunday, March 3rd!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter! I'm a bit ahead, so I thought I'd help start things off with a bang by giving an extra post this week. I hope you enjoy!

In the world of Molly Stilinski, a cup of juice and a box of fruity cereal heals all ills. She carefully picks out the red pieces and sets them aside, cheerfully eating the rest in between sips of apple juice. Her feet swing as she sits at Derek’s kitchen table (the same one that Stiles ate at for eighteen years of his life) and after a moment’s thought, she nudges the red circles to Danny who sits opposite her.

“Can you eat red things?” she asks. “I like how they taste, but Daddy says they make me act funny, so I’m not allowed. Some orange things and purple things are bad, too.”

Danny glances at Stiles like he’s not sure what he’s seeing, then quietly takes a piece of cereal and pops it in his mouth. Molly beams, and places another one in the pile for Danny.

“Red dye number 40,” Stiles explains. “I don’t want to medicate her, if I can avoid it, and keeping her from eating it seems to help her not be so jumpy.”

Derek grunts, and the look Molly throws him is pure amusement. Stiles doesn’t get this; by all rights, he’d expected Molly to be terrified to be here. He’d figured that she’d smell the wolves and freak out, but no, as long as she has her cereal and juice, she seems to be fine. Stiles, on the other hand, is really considering freaking out on her behalf right about now.

“Danny.”

The other man looks up when Derek snaps his name, nodding when he’s told to watch over the kid.

“ _Molly_ ,” Stiles interjects. He manages to plant a kiss on his daughter’s head before Derek wrestles him out of the kitchen and into the living room. Which is surprisingly clean, considering how many people Stiles figures have to live here. “How many people _do_ live here?” he asks.

“Five.” The one word falls flat.

“For someone who wanted to talk to me awfully badly a moment ago, you’re not being very forthcoming, sourwolf.” Stiles doesn’t mean to, but the old nickname falls from his lips easily, underlined by Derek’s growl in response. “So that’s Danny, you, Scott…”

“Isaac and Lydia.”

“What about Allison and Boyd?” Stiles doesn’t have to ask what happened to Erica and Jackson; he remembers that all too well. It was just one part of what led to him leaving in the first place.

“Allison’s in Massachusetts. Boyd’s got a place of his own.”

“She went further than I did.”

“She calls once a week.” Derek’s glare is accusing. “You walked out on the pack, Stiles. Whatever you’re up to, thinking you can walk back in here is a big assumption.”

“My daughter was bitten two weeks ago.” Stiles’s voice drops to a whisper. The nightmares are bad enough when they don’t talk about it; he doesn’t want Molly going into screaming fits from the memories now. “Her mother was killed. And _yes_ , it was the alpha of the pack that got to Molly. So I need _this_ pack’s _help_ , Derek. My four year old daughter survived the bite, and there’s a full moon coming.”

He hears her laughter from the other room, mixing with a low chuckle from Danny. Molly charms everyone; she always has. Stiles crosses his arms, waiting for some response from Derek, because if Derek says no, he has no idea where else to go.

“What pack?”

“What _pack_?” Stiles throws his hands wide. “Derek, there wasn’t time to ask for names and a pedigree! I was _trying_ to keep Cass and me and Molly _alive_ and in case you haven’t noticed, I fucked that up. I wasn’t thinking about much of _anything_ after that.”

“Is the alpha still alive?” Derek’s eyes flash red as he steps into Stiles’s personal space. In the distance, Stiles hears a soft, low growl, a tone to the sound he’s only heard twice before. He tries to send a silent message to Molly to stay still, to eat her cereal and not _move_ , but the patter of small feet tells him how futile that hope is. So he stands his ground, letting Derek come in close, meeting him nose to nose as Derek repeats the question.

“Yes.” Stiles’s jaw is set. “Yes, he is, and the rest of his pack. I’ve been on the run for the last couple of weeks, trying to hide and praying my daughter didn’t die.” His hands are fists by his side. “You don’t have to worry, I didn’t lead them back here. The whole point was to get _away_ from them. At least here the supernatural fuckery quotient is _known_.”

Derek’s growl grows. A small, high-pitched impatient sound is all that alerts Stiles to trouble as a small body wedges between him and Derek, tiny hands shoving at Derek’s legs until he stumbles back. Molly plants her hands on her hips, glaring at the alpha wolf. “Don’t you _touch_ my Daddy,” she yells. “You _smell_ funny. And I don’t _like_ it when people _growl_.”

“Now you know why I keep telling you not to do it, baby,” Stiles says.

“It’s _different_ when I do it, Daddy.” Molly cocks her head, frowning at Derek. “You’re just a growly old sourwolf, I heard Daddy say that before. Don’t be a meanie. It’s not nice.”

Stiles doesn’t know whether to laugh or snatch his daughter to safety. Because this? This cannot possibly be a good idea, with a four year old newly hatched wolf staring down a fully grown nasty-tempered alpha. And yet, Molly doesn’t even wiggle.

It occurs to Stiles that Molly is protecting her pack. And she doesn’t even know what pack is.

“Stiles! Oh my God, Stiles.” The door slams open and Stiles is bowled over, kisses planted against his cheek, arms wrapped around his body before he has time to react. The scent of raspberries and cream is overwhelming and familiar, and he holds on in turn, burying his face in the strawberry blond hair while someone else pounds a hello against his back.

“Lydia,” Stiles murmurs. “It’s good to see you.”

The thumping slows and Lydia releases Stiles, giving him a chance to turn and greet Scott as well. This was the welcome home he’d expected. These are his friends who don’t stare at him warily and expect him to simply walk away, even though his entire _life_ is packed in the trunk of that car.

“You didn’t say you were coming to visit,” Scott says. “Mom’d be glad to see you. You’ll have to stop by before you leave.”

“Are we leaving soon, Daddy?”

All eyes turn to where Molly stands, a bright smile lighting her expression. “I thought you said we were going to stay,” she points out.

“Stay?” Derek growls.

Stiles shrugs, lifting Molly and ignoring the confusion from the others. “We need to get ourselves a motel room, baby,” he murmurs. “But yes, we’ll be staying in Beacon Hills for a while.”

“Don’t be an idiot, Stiles.” Lydia reaches for Molly who goes with her after a moment’s uncertainty. Stiles is amazed how natural they look together, and he realizes (not for the first time) that meeting Cass once upon a time _might_ have had something to do with his lingering decade long crush on Lydia. “You’ll stay here. You’re pack after all.”

“No, he’s not,” Derek says.

“Yes, he is.” Lydia turns to Molly. “Would you like to see the room you’ll be staying in? You’ll need to share it with your father. Danny, I’ll be moving my things in with you later, so please make sure your room is neat.”

“I guess that’s settled then.” Scott claps his hand against Stiles’s back. “You owe me an explanation.”

“You have no idea.” Stiles can’t help but watch as Lydia and Molly disappear, and he wonders if he ought to warn Lydia. But then, Lydia is immune, so what would she care that Molly’s a wolf in the first place? 

“Then let’s get something to eat and get talking.” Scott pushes Stiles back towards the kitchen, and Stiles goes with it. Derek’s still standing there, a silent growl in his expression. Talk first, Stiles figures. He’ll let Derek yell again later.

He doesn’t really think there’s any way to avoid it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I supposed to put a summary on when I post new chapters? Anyway... next chapter will be up on Sunday, March 3rd. Thank you so much for reading along!


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles manages to escape the conversation after only giving out the salient details. The pack now knows that Molly is four, and that she was born during finals his freshman year. They know she is _his_ and that her mother’s name was Cass, killed by a werewolf two weeks before. They know that Molly was bitten.

Everything else Stiles keeps to himself for now. He’s not ready to share the details yet. He’s spent so much time trying to put this behind him that being back in the thick of it is overwhelming. When Molly starts fussing, he takes advantage of it, slipping away to tuck her into the big double bed they’ll have to share.

The room smells of Lydia. Stiles may not be a werewolf, but this scent is distinctive, and it hasn’t changed since she first discovered her favorite perfume so many years before. He watches Molly nuzzle the pillow, inhaling roughly, then burrowing beneath the covers as if she finds it comforting. Maybe she does, Stiles can’t tell. He’s still so completely off-balance, losing Cass after almost five years together. 

It hasn’t hit him yet, not really, and he can’t let it hit him now. As his hands start to shake, he curls them into tight fists and sucks in a deep breath. The oncoming panic attack is almost familiar, and he longs to lose himself to it, but he doesn’t have that luxury. He hasn’t had that luxury since Molly was born, but the last few weeks have been pushing him to the edge.

There are people here. He could let them care for her, just for a moment, and he could go _blank_.

His throat tightens; sparks fly at the edges of his vision.

Fuck.

_No_.

He kisses Molly’s temple and grabs his hoodie out of the duffle bag, shrugging into it as he heads through the house and out the back door. He sits on the steps with his eyes closed and just breathes in the air of Beacon Hills, trying to let that calm him.

He’d thought maybe his father’s spirit would be here, and that it might help. But it doesn’t.

“So.” Danny drops onto the step next to him. “Cass, huh?”

“Cassidy,” Stiles says, not looking at him. He can’t succumb completely, but the darkness of the inside of his eyelids is comforting. It lets him focus on his breath, in and out, soft huffs into the night air. “Cassidy Louise Thornton.”

“Not married?”

It’s easier to deal with Danny’s questions when Stiles isn’t watching him. To pick and choose what he answers, what new pieces of information he lets slip. “It didn’t make sense. Molly has my name, though.” Baggage. They’d been so young, and carried so much on their shoulders. Marriage would have been a mistake.

Danny huffs a small sigh. “I’d always thought you were going to come out, you know.”

At that, Stiles has to laugh. It’s such old news in his mind, something from his life before Cass and Molly ever entered it. “Didn’t you pay attention to me and Lydia?” he asks, ignoring the implied question.

“There was never a you and Lydia,” Danny teases, and suddenly it’s all right. Everything seems back to normal. Stiles smiles and leans back, elbows on the step behind him, head tilted back as his eyes open to see Danny sitting there beside him.

“So,” Stiles says, grinning. “Do you think gay guys would find me attractive?”

It’s good to be back on script. Known quantities, familiar banter. Wolves react to scent, but Stiles reacts to words, taking them in as comfort.

But Danny’s response is slow in coming, his gaze assessing Stiles’s features. It makes Stiles wonder what he sees, what he thinks of the changes. There are harder planes to Stiles’s face now, taking some of the baby softness from his cheeks. He looks older. Stiles bites his lip, uncertain under this deep assessment, and Danny looks up at the moon hanging overhead.

“Yeah,” he says. “They probably would. It’s that Stilinski magic you’ve got going for you.”

The wording surprises a laugh out of Stiles, because oh, Danny doesn’t know the half of it. “Well, then, I’d better be scarce around you. Wouldn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Watch out for Isaac.”

The warning is more serious than Stiles expects. He sits up, brows drawn together in confusion. “How do you mean?”

“Well, I always thought you and Scott would—” Danny’s voice trails off. “Look. There have been a lot of changes you don’t know about.”

Changes. It’s been five years, so of course there have been changes. And it sounds like Stiles hasn’t been the only one leaving things out of the Christmas card notes. But if Stiles doesn’t want them to start digging for more information, he can’t push them either; being nosy gives them license to be nosy in return. He leaves that subject behind, picking one that ought to be innocuous. “So tell me, who’s in my room?”

“Derek.”

Stiles’s eyebrows fly up. “ _Derek_ took my room? I thought he’d take the master suite.”

“Scott and Isaac are sharing it. I’m in the old guest room.”

His mother’s sewing room, Stiles translates inwardly, although that changed a long time ago. “Hey, do you know what happened to the spinning wheel that used to be in there?” It’s just an idle question, spoken slowly and carefully, as if there’s nothing out of the ordinary about it. “Dad always thought about donating her old yarn and spinning wheel, but he just didn’t want to get rid of it.”

“I think we put it up in the attic, along with most of the stuff you left in the house.” Danny nudges Stiles. “We knew you’d come back someday. Lydia and Scott did, anyway. I wasn’t sure. Derek—well, you know what he’s like.”

_Sourwolf_.

“Yeah.” That was a cord cut long ago, but it was necessary then. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. I just need… the full moon’s coming up, and it’s Molly’s first. I need help getting through that in a few days, and once I know how to handle it, we’ll be fine on our own.”

“So you’re planning on leaving.” Danny’s voice goes flat, and he pushes to his feet, all comfort in the conversation gone. “Look—this place is for pack now, Stiles. If you’re not pack… try not to make a mess of it this time.” He hesitates. “Your daughter’s cute.”

Stiles smiles at that because he really doesn’t want to think about the accusations in the rest of it. He didn’t mean to abandon anyone. Well, yeah, he did, but there were reasons, and they were good ones at the time. He can’t explain any of it to anyone else. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

“I’ll try not to fuck things up this time,” he finally says, and Danny seems satisfied with that. He goes inside and leaves Stiles with the night noises and the cool air and his own thoughts. 

Stiles closes his eyes again, because if he leaves them open he’ll see the weave already starting to form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted on Sunday, March 10th!
> 
> Also, if you didn't get a chance to see it, I posted another entry in the series which is a bit of backstory for Isaac and Danny. It stands alone as a story, but it is also part of this same universe.


	4. Chapter 4

It is the thin, high cry that wakes him, even before the feel of her moving in the bed, running in her sleep then curling into a ball and whimpering. Stiles wraps his arms around Molly, kissing her head, whispering soft words that he knows she doesn’t hear. There is nothing he can do at this point but wait it out.

Her shoulder is hot when she dreams, as if the now-healed bite remembers. He rubs it, kisses it, holds her close when she shivers. He sits up against the wall and pulls her into his lap, murmuring that Daddy has her, and Daddy will keep her safe.

It breaks his heart when she cries for Mommy. Eyes press closed and he feels the tears there, feels the darkness slipping in.

When the door bursts open, he can’t look up. He holds Molly’s face to his shoulder so she won’t see, buries his nose in her hair, inhaling her scent. He feels the threads tight around them and his fingers slide out, twisting the weave to keep them close: Stiles and Molly against the world.

The weave parts, new threads appearing despite his efforts.

Stiles jerks awake, eyes wide in the darkness, Molly cradled in his arms and still whimpering.

“Get out of my room,” Stiles whispers harshly. Derek’s eyes glow red, and Stiles is very aware how vulnerable he and his daughter are. Molly sighs, body going boneless against him, relaxing back into the depths of sleep.

“When a cub cries, the pack comes.” The voice is pure gravel, ground out around fangs, and the familiarity is strangely easing for Stiles. He knows this argument, the one where Derek’s an asshole and Stiles fights back.

“We’re not pack.” After all, it was said often enough earlier in the night for Stiles to get the point. Molly makes a muffled noise, and Stiles eases her back down under the covers, making sure she’s settled before he crawls out. 

He has lost his socks somewhere in the hours since bed, and his shirt disappeared as well. The tiny werewolf is a furnace, temperature burning hot, and Stiles is left with sleep pants and a sheen of sweat.

He pushes up close to Derek, one hand against his chest, shoving him backwards. “We’re not pack, so get out of my room,” Stiles repeats with another shove, his voice low and intense. He sees Derek’s nostrils flare, and Stiles’s jaw sets against the stubbornness of the Alpha wolf.

In the hallway, he can see the others gathered. This is the only bedroom on the main level of the house. Lydia and Danny are still on the stairs, sleepily rubbing at their eyes. Lydia’s brows draw together in a frown; Danny looks angry. Scott is closest, aside from Derek, and Stiles guesses that the only thing keeping him back is that Derek got there first. Isaac is pressed close behind Scott, arm wrapped around him, one hand familiar on Scott’s bare chest.

Seeing them all deflates the anger. Stiles steps into the hallway and tugs the door shut behind him, hoping the argument to come doesn’t wake Molly. “We’re okay,” he says, then realizes that _he_ isn’t what _they_ care about. “ _She’s_ okay. It’s just a nightmare. She’s had them every night since the attack.”

“And who can blame her?” Lydia says bluntly. “She was bitten, and her mother was killed. Was she there when—”

Stiles nods, cutting Lydia’s words off with a swipe of his hand. It goes to his forehead, pushing back hair that has gotten too long. He remembers why he used to keep it short; how convenient it was to have it out of his face.

He also remembers why he started to grow it, and he sighs. Because that’s not going to change now. “We were both there, okay? The pack went after all of us, together. Molly saw _everything_. And I suck as a therapist, and she’s going to change, and I probably need to suck it up and find her a _real_ therapist but how the fuck do I explain _oh yeah, she saw her mother ripped to shreds in front of her, and oh by the way, did you know werewolves are real_ to a psychiatrist without ending up in the padded room in a straightjacket myself?” His words are hissed, low and angry, pushing in closer to Derek because he’s still standing there, still _looming_. “And you don’t get to come to her rescue like she’s _your_ cub. She’s _mine_. If I’m not pack, then she’s not pack, and you can just back off.”

Derek looks past Stiles, nose flared, head slightly cocked. Whatever he hears eases his mind; his body relaxes, the red fading from his eyes. One hand comes up to rub at his face. “Stiles…”

“What?”

“Put a shirt on.”

“Can’t handle all this fabulosity?” Stiles spreads his hands, although the joke doesn’t reach his eyes. He hears Scott laugh and Isaac growl, and even Lydia looks amused. “You try having the body temperature of a breakable human and sharing a bed with a tiny sunbeam. It’s like camping in the desert.” Now that the sweat of heat and panic is drying on his skin, Stiles is cold, but he’ll be damned if he’s going to admit it. He crosses his arms and squares his shoulders and tries to measure up when he knows he never will, not against the people crowded into this house.

He huffs a sigh. “Look. I said I’d get a motel room, and I’ll do that tomorrow. Or an apartment, because yes, I recognize that it might take more than one full moon to get Molly to a point where we’re comfortable on her own. That way your wolfy brains won’t try to insist she’s pack, or invading pack, or whatever it is that’s going on in there.” He twirls his finger somewhere near Derek’s head. “This is your house, and we’re putting you out, so we’ll get out of it. Just… I really need the help. If she were older, it’d be different, but she’s _four_ and I’ve never dealt with a child werewolf before. I don’t even know where to start, and it’s a mess.”

Somehow Lydia is there, sliding one arm around his waist, pressing her cheek to his. “We’ll help,” she says. “I know someone who can talk to her, someone we can trust and who already knows more than a little about this world.” She ignores the snarl from Derek. “So I’ll call her tomorrow, and get Molly and you an appointment.” Her finger presses against Stiles’s lips. “Don’t argue; you need to talk as much as she does.”

“But not right now.” Derek reaches past Stiles to reopen the door to his room. Stiles shivers under the passage of that scent. He’d almost forgotten it, the way Derek smells of forest and leaves and a hint of smoke underlined by vanilla. But Derek keeps getting in his face, keeps reminding him sharply of it, and he hasn’t changed.

Which is a large part of the problem. Derek _hasn’t_ changed.

“Go back to bed, Stiles.”

“I’m not one of your wolves to order around—”

“Bed.” Derek cuts him off with a quick tug and shove, pulling him from Lydia’s arms and shoving him through the doorway. “Your cub needs you and your first lesson is that no matter what anyone says, _you_ are her pack. You may not be wolf, but you will always be what she needs, first and foremost. Go in there and make sure she stays comfortable.”

“And because he won’t say it, I will: get some sleep,” Lydia adds. “You’re no good to anyone when you look like you’re going to fall over. If you have trouble sleeping, we’ll go see Deaton tomorrow. He has tricks up his sleeves that would knock even Derek out.” She smiles sweetly when the alpha growls. “And yes, we’ve done it.”

That’s a story Stiles would pay to hear, but the exhaustion is seeping back into his bones. It’s as if _mentioning_ bed has made it seem like the most important thing in the world right now, so the story will have to wait.

So he kisses Lydia’s cheek and turns away. He can feel Scott’s gaze upon his back, hears the murmured wishes to sleep well before he closes the door.

He’s barely back under the covers, his daughter tucked in close, before the darkness claims him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys SO much for all your comments! I'll admit it, I love comments... I think writers live on comments and recs (and food and oxygen come in a close third after those).
> 
> I hope you are still enjoying the story, and thank you for being here! The next chapter is slightly short, so we'll have a special mid-week post on Wednesday, March 13th (assuming I do not embarrass myself by forgetting).


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles hates the way New York City smells. He’s never been there, but he knows the stench of soot in his nose, the cloying reek of garbage baking in the midday sun. 

He walks those streets now, wearing his mother’s feet, her sneakers worn and rubbing against her heel. She moves with a purpose despite her exhaustion, two teenagers trailing in her wake. “It’s not much farther,” she says, although Stiles can’t hear them complaining. When she glances back, they look tired. Exhausted and dirty, with a smudge of dirt across Derek’s cheek, and deep black bags beneath Laura’s eyes.

Laura has one arm around Derek’s waist and they lean on each other as they walk, following without complaint.

“It’s… it’s… it should be right around here.” Carolyn Stilinski pauses on a street corner, chin lifted, eyes closed. Stiles sees the threads that stretch out around her, feels the way her fingers dance upon them for a moment until she finds the one she wants and turns in that direction. “This way, only a few houses along.”

Derek and Laura follow without question.

This dream is always eerie to Stiles, the way they seem so blank. He only knows Derek as angry and vital, and he doesn’t know Laura at all but has always assumed she would be like her brother. Or perhaps he did know them both, once upon a time, since it is obvious that his mother did.

Time is confusing, and the facts of meetings hold no relevance when cords can be cut the way Carolyn is able to, with surgical precision and clean endings. Stiles has yet to master it; he thinks this is because he hates the idea of weaving himself entirely out of someone’s life. He doesn’t want to be forgotten.

The brownstone is unassuming, the plate on the door declaring it number 371 and Stiles knows that someday he will find out what street it is on. This is Carolyn’s home, Stiles’s home, his grandfather’s home and for long before that. Weavers have always owned this place, and Weavers always will. If Molly cannot remember on her own, Stiles will be sure to tell her, because this is her heritage too.

“What next?”

Laura’s voice is thick, rolling like gravel, and Stiles sees the hints of claws and teeth. Stress has her shaking, Derek’s hand on her arm to hold her in check. They are each other’s anchor, the sibling ties close, and Carolyn uses that.

“Hold on,” Carolyn murmurs, raising her hands and seeking the threads. She twists and weaves, binding the siblings closer while tying off the edges. She tugs in new threads, settling them into the weave of the city as if they have always been there. She makes them a part of the city’s history, weaves them into its here and now.

The last thing she does is take the slender strands that stretch out into the distance, reaching west towards Beacon Hills, and cuts them cleanly, tucking them into the careful weave. They will unravel when they are needed, and for now the clean break will keep these cubs safe.

Laura blinks, and Derek growls softly. “Who are you?” he asks. His voice does not yet have the depth it would develop by six years later.

“I’m sorry you’re not interested in our phone service,” Carolyn replies, a flick of her fingers adding that to the web. It is Derek’s turn to blink, and he stands taller even as she smiles. “I’ll just be going now. I’m sorry to have taken your time. You really do have quite a nice place.”

Laura looks around and Stiles watches the threads settle into place, tightening like a warm quilt around her. Her body relaxes and she stands with ease, rolling slightly upon the balls of her feet. “It is, isn’t it? We’re lucky.” She has a lazy grace as the tension slips away.

“Very,” Carolyn agrees. “You take care now.”

She sees the way their noses flare, the way they scent the air as if trying to attach her to a memory. And as the door closes, she sees them turn to each other. The threads rest calmly, the new weave strong as silk, and Carolyn is satisfied.

Stiles wakes with a catch in his throat, breath shaky, hands clenched tightly. He doesn’t want to see what comes next even though he knows, and he forces his body to shake the memory away. In two more days she would be in the hospital, dying, and there would be _nothing_ he could do.

He didn’t understand, then, why she took his hand from her death bed, squeezing weakly. He didn’t understand what she meant about untying the weave, about spinning new threads and anchor threads that shouldn’t be cut. He still doesn’t understand it all, and he’s not sure he _wants_ it to make sense. He’s not ready for it.

Stiles has Molly, and that is more than enough for him to deal with. He knows that this is the worst place for him to be, that the only way to keep this pack safe is for him to be gone. His mother tried to weave the Hales out, and that was wrong. Stiles knows what to do. He will get Molly settled, learn what he needs to learn, and if he’s lucky, find his mother’s spinning wheel.

And then he will leave and cut the cords properly and they will never find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Since this chapter is a bit shorter, you get a bonus this week. The next chapter will be back to Sunday posting as usual, on Sunday, March 17th.
> 
> I apologize to anyone who has been getting notifications that this has been updated, or has seen it listed as newly updated, and then been disappointed by no new chapter. I have often been pre-posting chapters the night before so that all I have to do is click "Post Chapter" on the draft in the morning. This may be making the work look as if it has been updated even though the new chapter hasn't actually posted at that point. I'm going to stop pre-posting, and I've let the support team know and asked about it. I apologize for the confusion!!
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments! I hope you enjoy the wee turn things take in this chapter. And er... yeah. Stiles. *sighs*


	6. Chapter 6

“You were bitten, too.”

“Thanks, yes, I’d love to talk paranormal distress over coffee.” Stiles finishes pouring the coffee into a mug and takes a hesitant sniff. Hazelnut, he thinks. Needs creamer. He pads over to the fridge and rifles through it, checking the expiration date on the carton before using the vanilla creamer that he finds. It makes the coffee palatable, at least, and he needs the caffeine this morning.

Honestly, Stiles is starting to wonder if he’ll ever sleep normally again.

When he looks up from his coffee, Derek is standing far too close, doing that looming thing again. “Dude,” Stiles takes a step back, finds the counter right behind him. “Stop trying to intimidate me. I just want to eat breakfast, then I’ll make phone calls and Molly and I will go out for the day. You won’t even know we’re here.”

He isn’t prepared for the way Derek leans in, pressing his nose to Stiles’s throat. The bite aches, and Stiles remembers that it may be mostly healed, but it still has a long way to go. He could swear it throbs in reaction to Derek’s inhalation.

“Dude, if you try to taste the Alpha’s scent on my skin I will hurt you,” Stiles mutters softly. “Back off. It’s just a bite, and no, I’m not changed, and I’m obviously not dead.”

“The odds of both you and Lydia being immune are—”

“Astronomical, I know.” Stiles really doesn’t want to talk about why he is the way he is. If Molly were older, he might have been able to help her save herself as well, but it just wasn’t possible, and that’s another thing for him to feel guilty as shit about. “So tell me about New York.”

As subject changes go, it’s a bit blunt.

Maybe more than blunt, Derek’s eyes narrowing as he steps back. “New York?” There’s something wary in his voice. “Why? Did the Alpha mention it?”

Yes. No. Not exactly. Stiles tilts his head then looks down at his coffee. “The Alpha was from New York,” he says, which isn’t a lie. “He didn’t mention you at all, which surprised me since I figured any wolf pack would’ve noticed the Hales around town. I’m assuming your sister was just as much larger than life as yourself.” No, the Alpha didn’t mention the Hales.

The Alpha knew the Weavers.

Which frustrates the hell out of Stiles because it means he’s sure there’s something in this house somewhere that explains everything. All the bits and pieces his mother never got to tell him and his father couldn’t explain. Something that says _why_ she took Derek and Laura to New York and cut them out of the weave. And why the Alpha came looking for _Stiles_ in particular.

“I was thinking about going there.” Stiles takes another long gulp of his coffee. He hears the toaster pop and he reaches for his bagel, slathering butter over it. He laughs softly under his breath. There’s butter  in the Stilinski kitchen. Real, honest to God, butter. His Dad would’ve been thrilled. “I guess werewolves don’t worry about their cholesterol.”

“We’re not all wolves.” Lydia breezes in, Molly close behind. “We’re going to the mall,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone that expects complete agreement and obedience. “Molly has shown me all of her outfits and I must say you are entirely lacking in proper clothing and shoes, and we are going to remedy that.”

Stiles can see the giant suitcases now. “Remember whatever we own has to fit in the trunk of my Kizashi,” he says, which is only half an excuse. Yes, they need to pack light when they leave. But more importantly, he doesn’t want to let Molly out of his sight. Ever.

His fingers start to shake and he holds onto the coffee mug.

“You don’t need to worry, papa bear.” Lydia presses a kiss to his cheek, and Stiles swears he can feel the sticky residue of her lipstick left behind. “Molly and I will be _fine_. We might swing by and see my friend Karen while we’re out. She works in my building, and she adores children.”

Lydia’s gaze meets Stiles and he focuses on that, holding on to that silent communication she is passing to him. Friend. Karen. Work. Oh. She must be the psychologist.

“I… don’t you think I ought to be there for that?”

“It’s not anything _official_.” Lydia waves a hand, her answer breezy. 

“I’m okay, Daddy!” Molly holds out her arms and Stiles discards the coffee mug so he can lift her, letting her bury her face against his shoulder. She nuzzles him, inhaling, and Stiles’s breath catches. He can hear the silence, feel the way Derek watches her instinctive behavior. Molly huffs a sigh and kisses his cheek. “Auntie Lydia says that her friend has some toys I can play with, and maybe we can bring her muffins or ice cream, and that we’ll just play and talk and draw. She might even let me _paint_.”

Stiles has to laugh at that. His daughter loves her art, and bringing a pile of art supplies wasn’t on his list of things he thought to pack when going on the run. “Okay then, it sounds like you girls have a good afternoon planned. Just… Lydia…” He hesitates, waiting for her to look at him. “If you need me, call me.” He holds out his phone to her so she can text herself to get the number. “We haven’t been apart in a while.”

“And that’s why she needs a bit of time,” Lydia says, although she smiles when she says it. “Really, Stiles. I’ll bring her back with pretty clothing and a new hairstyle and darling new shoes, and possibly some fingerpaint under her nails and a bit of a sugar high. I suspect she’ll be more fun than Allison to shop with.”

“Who’s Allison?”

Lydia holds out her hand and trades the phone to Stiles, taking Molly back. “My best friend. Perhaps you’ll get to meet her eventually, if you stay here for a little while. She can be your Auntie, too.”

“Bye, Daddy!” Molly stops in the doorway to wave. “Bye, Uncle Derek!”

The answering growl sounds surprised, and Molly giggles as she walks away.

“Molly’s mother was a force of nature,” Stiles says quietly. “Cass was amazing. Strong, intelligent, beautiful. Molly’s a lot like her, so figure that if she’s decided you’re her Uncle Derek, you might be stuck with it.”

Derek’s jaw is tight, mouth clamped shut. The growl vibrates in his throat, cut off as he coughs. “You’re going to talk about the bite,” he says firmly.

And that’s Stiles’s cue to leave. “No, I’m not. I’m going out, because there are some things I need to see to, and I’ll be back later. Trust me, Derek, you don’t need to know anything about it. Just… help us out, and let me get out of your hair. It’s best that way.”

Derek catches his upper arm as he walks away, fingers tight around his bicep, curling in to grip. “If you don’t tell me everything, I can’t protect you.”

Stiles does his best not to laugh, because there is _nothing_ Derek can do. “Don’t worry, Derek. You don’t need to. I have become damned good at protecting myself.”

He failed, once, with Cass. Stiles is never going to fail to protect his family again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! I'm barely awake this morning, so hopefully this is going up with no errors. *fingers crossed*
> 
> I have definitely found that the trouble with writing ahead of what y'all are reading means that I get very anxious to post new chapters as soon as I can. But I know that if I post too quickly, I won't be able to keep up with the writing, so I'm holding to schedule until I can at least see the end of this storyline and know how long it will be (I just finished writing chapter 15 last night).
> 
> Oh! Two stories were added to the series this week ("Silence is Deafening" and "Silence is Bliss"). With a prompt of Silence at fullmoon_ficlet, I decided to take more of a look at how Scott, Isaac, Danny, and Allison's relationships intertwined during the years Stiles was absent from Beacon Hills.
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with me, and for your lovely comments. I hope you continue to enjoy the storyline!
> 
> ETA: Knew I forgot something. Next update will be on Sunday, March 24th!


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles doesn’t actually have anything he needs to do right that second to make good on his threat of leaving the house, so he retreats to his (Lydia’s) room. Scott finds him pacing a path around the edges of the room a half hour later and drags him out. He makes Stiles drive, claiming that he wants to see the new car in action. Stiles knows that Scott knows him well enough to see that Stiles needs to _do_ something. So they drive out of town for a while, winding their way around back roads and Stiles realizes that he’s somehow taken them near the old Hale lands.

He used to think his Jeep knew the way there and could go without him. Apparently it’s just his subconscious.

Stiles pulls up at the side of the road and stops.

“This is where it all began,” Scott says.

Wrong. It began long before that, Stiles knows. His fingers twitch against the steering wheel, wondering how much he can trust Scott. Whether he can say anything without endangering him. This is Scott. Stiles’s best friend since forever and no, he can’t imagine putting him in danger, not like that.

“Bit of an extreme length to go for an asthma cure,” Stiles jokes instead. Keep it light. Keep it easy.

“You’ve got a _kid_ ,” Scott says. “I’m pretty sure you’re the poster child for extreme right now. A _kid_ , Stiles. How is that even possible?”

Stiles can’t help himself. He lets his eyes go wide, and he spreads his hands. “Well, Scott, when a boy and a girl get really horny…”

Scott laughs, so it’s worth it.

“So, is that it? You got drunk at some frat party and she got pregnant?”

Stiles can’t help it, the way his mouth twists at the insinuation. “No, Scott, that’s not it. Do you really think I’d go off to college and change that much?”

“I think you went off to college and you really wanted to lose your virginity,” Scott says.

His supposed state of virginity at graduation is not a point Stiles is going to discuss, so he lets the conversation drift back to Cass. “We met early on my freshman year. Coffee led to movies which led to more dates and eventually sex. It was…” Stiles hesitates, but this is Scott, so he does his best to continue on. “It was good to be with someone. And she got the whole grief thing. She was on her own, same as I was, but we had each other. Then we had Molly, which didn’t make things easy, but we both managed to graduate on time. She got her degree in Math with a minor in Foreign Languages and I got my dual major in Sociology and Anthropology. With a Classics minor.” It was a mouthful to say, and a hell of a lot of hard work to do, but Stiles is proud of it. He put himself through college on his dad’s life insurance money, and he came out with what he wanted. He just wishes he had better job options than running away from paranormal bad guys. Or hunting them, but really, that’s just not feasible with a four year old.

“Did she know about werewolves?”

“You mean before they started chasing us?” Stiles makes a face. “She knew I was into a lot of strange things. My thesis was on the paths of mysticism and shamanism as humankind moved outwards from the cradle of civilization, and the origins of creature myths throughout different societies.”

Scott blinks, head cocked.

Stiles grins. “I traced the werewolf myth from the beginning of humanity, through all different societies, and compared the different stories that have survived. I also traced the use of magic within society, from shamans and healers to modern paganism. My advisor ate it up.” And of course, she had no idea how real any of it was. Stiles was aiming for scholarly acceptance, not being labeled a crackpot.

The thesis had given him the time and resources to dig into certain forms of magic and how they intertwined with the myths surrounding werewolves and other creatures. He had armed himself with knowledge, and carries it now on two thumb drives: one in his pocket, attached to his keychain, and the other buried at the bottom of Molly’s bag. Much of it, though, is in his head. Those are the pieces he can’t keep written down, just in case someone finds it.

The frustrating part is that it’s all just myth. No names. No families. Even though Stiles knows there are so many established families and packs throughout the world. Hales. Argents. Weavers. There are others, too. He suspects his life would be easier if someone had bothered to catalogue them long ago.

“So.” It’s Stiles’s turn to poke and prod. He gave up information, so now Scott should feel comfortable enough to do the same. Right? It makes Stiles sad to think like that, to have lost the ease that used to be between them. He can feel hints of it, lingering just out of reach, and he wonders if it would come back if he were to stay here in Beacon Hills for longer. “You and Isaac. When did that happen?”

Scott flushes brightly. “Um. Oh. That? Maybe… a year or so after graduation. I mean, for real. Some things… they’d happened a few times. There was this one time with him and me and Allison, not all that long after your dad—” Scott cuts off abruptly. “Sorry. It was kind of a train wreck at the time, anyway.”

Stiles waves a hand. “Five years ago, Scott. I’m not angsting over it anymore.” Which is sort of a lie, since that kind of pain never really goes away, just gets a bit more dull. Besides, he knows all about the need for human contact after a death. He knows that one really _really_ well. “I just never figured you for being gay. Not that there’s a problem with it. Sometimes I start to wonder if we’re all gay, or bi, under the hood and it’s just society telling us otherwise.”

“You’re the sociology major,” Scott points out. “You’d know the history.”

“There have been many ancient societies where men and women bonded for children, but had same sex lovers for companionship and emotional bonding.” Stiles shrugs. “Personally, I think people should be however they feel they’re wired on the inside. I might be a sociology major, but sometimes people frustrate me. Which is why I never went into psychology.”

Which only serves to remind him that Molly is with Lydia and playing games with some psychiatrist Stiles doesn’t know, and that bothers him. It makes his fingers itch, and he reaches for his phone without thinking. His thumb slides over the face of it but he manages not to start a text or a phone call. It’s nothing official, just sharing muffins and playing with paints. Molly will be fine. Lydia will call him if she needs him. This is _Lydia_. Out of all the pack, Stiles suspects he can trust her the most with Molly.

And if Molly trusts Lydia, well, Stiles can hardly blame her for putting her faith in another strong-willed, highly intelligent redhead.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

It takes Stiles a moment to remember what they were talking about, but when he does he waves a hand, negating any trouble. “Dude, no worries. It’s not like I told you I had a daughter. I was being purposefully obtuse. I didn’t deserve the details. And you two… you seem happy. Am I right? Isaac seems downright possessive, but—”

“Isaac has family issues,” Scott interrupts him. “And he’s jealous of you. He used to think you and I would… but we didn’t. It’s not like that. Even if you were gay, we’re like brothers.”

“I assure you, Scott, if I’m going to suck a dick, it’s not yours,” Stiles tells him. “And I can say the same to Isaac if it’ll make things less tense in the house.”

“I think he’s taking Molly as proof of your heterosexuality.” Scott grins. “Mostly, anyway. Since we do have Allison on occasion.”

There is a part of Stiles that wants to ask what that’s all about. Why she’s gone, why she comes back, why she puts up with her boyfriend having a boyfriend… but it’s not entirely germane to his future in Beacon Hills right now. If Allison comes back while Stiles is here, he’ll sort it out then.

Right now his foot jiggles, tapping in the air, and his hand starts to move. Scott glances at Stiles’s fidgeting, then looks up. “Run in the woods?”

“As long as you don’t wolf out on me.” Stiles just needs to get out, move, breathe in the air of familiarity. Because Scott’s right, this is, in its own way, where it all began. Stiles suspects the weave is tight here, and he wants to feel it on his skin. He needs to know it properly before he can fix it. Before he can remove himself and Molly from it permanently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *happy sighs* I love getting to write Stiles and Scott together.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for being here and for your lovely comments! I've decided on a personal policy for bonus posts, so all y'all need to do is send strong writing vibes to me and pray for me to find more time, okay? It's all going to be dependent on what I get written by when each week. If I were braver, I'd run a rec/comment contest for bonus posts, but I am so not that brave.
> 
> The next post for this will be on Sunday, March 31st (next Sunday is still March, right?). Anyway, it's Easter, so I shall squeeze it in between egg hunts for my kids and going to my mom's for Easter dinner. There is a possibility I might post Saturday night instead if I start panicking about time on Sunday.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter! Spur of the moment decision this Wednesday morning, based at looking at what's coming up.

The June sun is high overhead, burning a hole through the lingering afternoon clouds. Stiles shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it on the seat. He thinks about leaving his shoes behind, but it has been too long since he’s run barefoot in the woods. There’s a difference between pounding a path around his apartment complex to build a weave, and slipping and sliding on pine needles and broken branches that cover random rocks in the forest. He’s a better runner now than he used to be, but he’d like to get out with his feet intact.

Scott sheds his shirt, and glances at Stiles, waiting. It’s hot, and Stiles knows better, so with a sigh he sheds his own shirt as well. He can feel the way Scott looks at the healing bite etched into his skin in the curve where shoulder meets throat. Stiles remembers the way teeth ripped into his skin, punching through muscle and just missing bone. Parts after that are a blur, and he knows Scott is waiting for an explanation. Stiles doesn’t give him one, shrugging that shoulder and tossing the shirt on the seat of the Kizashi. He tucks the key into his pocket and pushes the button to lock the doors. “Let’s go.”

Running with Scott is familiar even though neither of them runs like they did when they were fifteen and hunting corpses in the woods. Scott has an easy lope that covers ground quickly and stutters periodically like he’s waiting for Stiles to catch up and is then surprised to discover he’s right there. Stiles is more methodical. He started running when he got to college—yet another way to keep his body settled and his mind active for schoolwork—and he has a controlled pace that keeps him going, and good stamina. It helped when he needed it, but he couldn’t outrun everything. He still can’t outrun it all. In the end, it seems like it all catches up to him.

They pound along the forest floor, leaves crunching under every step. Stiles lets his mind wander, throws his senses open. He wonders what this place is like for a wolf, what they smell and see. When he opens like this, he sees the threads spreading out. The new weave is already building, taking strength around them. He can see the cord between himself and Scott, healing where it is frayed in the center, carefully rejoined. He can see the weave all around them, can touch the threads as he runs and they vibrate with the strength of Beacon Hills.

He sees the wolves woven into it, throughout it, bound into and by it. They are Beacon Hills, and Beacon Hills is the pack. This is what his mother tried to protect them from once. Taking them out of Beacon Hills didn’t work, though, and what Stiles tried _almost_ worked.

Scott stops abruptly, nose raised, claws extended.

“Dude, we said no wolfing out,” Stiles protests.

Scott throws one hand out, catching Stiles, yanking him closer. For the second time that day, a nose is pressed to Stiles’s shoulder, inhaling roughly against the bite. Stiles protests and shoves, stumbling back when Scott releases him with a growl.

“Dude!”

“They’re here.” Scott’s voice is low. He doesn’t have to explain who _they_ are. Them. The pack. _Him_. The Alpha.

Stiles can’t smell them, but he should be able to find them, to sense them. He scans the weave, because if Scott is smelling them, they’re nearby. Or they’ve been nearby. He finds it, small traces that he remembers from fleeing, little threads that cling to Stiles’s body like lint and spread outwards, joining him to those who chase him. “Fuck.” He shakes his head. “They followed me. They want—” Wait. He doesn’t know for sure. Maybe they want the last Weaver. Maybe they want Molly. Maybe it’s something else he still doesn’t understand. “I need to get home, to get to Molly.”

Stiles can’t do anything to help her at a distance. He races back to the car, Scott keeping pace with him easily in his wolfed out form. When they get there, Scott shoves Stiles into the passenger seat.

“Sit and ride,” Scott says. “Call Lydia, make sure they’re okay. I’ll drive.”

“I’ll be less jittery if I drive,” Stiles says. He needs to do something. The cell phone seems small in his fingers, slippery. He finds Lydia’s number and presses the call button, then raises it to his ear. His fingers tap against the case as he waits through the ringing.

“Stiles, we’re fine.” Of course she doesn’t bother with a hello, her tone chastising. “We’ve had a lovely morning shopping, and we just finished lunch and are on our way to visit my friend Karen for a snack. We’re bringing her an apple cinnamon muffin that Molly picked out.”

“Lydia, go home. The Alpha’s here.” Scott says. He’s focused on the road, but he’s a wolf, so the phone is easy to hear even though it’s pressed up against Stiles’s ear.

“Stiles?” Lydia asks.

“Yeah. He is.” Stiles huffs out a low breath, runs his fingers through his bangs. “I don’t know where. We were just in the woods and Scott caught the scent. It’s definitely the Alpha that Molly and I met, and the rest of his pack. So just… I need her safe, Lydia. Get her to the house for me, okay? Without scaring her. Maybe say this is Karen, that something’s come up and that you’re heading home instead. _Please_.”

He hates the twisted note in his voice, the clear pain coming through. Lydia’s _human_. Stiles couldn’t protect Molly, how could he expect Lydia to? He needs her inside the house, with other wolves to take care of her. He needs to set wards when they get home, to tighten the weave around the house. That’s what he should have been doing today, not going out running with Scott.

Survival first, friendship later. Isn’t that how it’s been for so long?

“Daddy?”

Molly’s voice is muffled but clear, and Stiles winces. “Shit.” How could he have forgotten that _Molly_ could hear as well as Scott? “Lydia…”

There’s a rustling, then his daughter’s voice directly into the phone. “Daddy, you said a bad word.”

“I know, baby. You haven’t growled at anyone today, have you?”

“Not once!” The cheer fades from her voice. “Daddy, are the bad wolves here? I thought you said they wouldn’t come here.”

He’d hoped they wouldn’t come here. “I guess I was wrong. Lydia’s going to take you back to the house, okay? Your Uncle Derek will be there, and he’s stronger than that Alpha. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Uncle Derek will protect us,” Molly says, complete trust in her voice. “You’d better get there soon too, Daddy. Tell Uncle Scott I said hi, okay?”

“Hi, Molly.”

“He can hear you as well as you could hear me when I was talking to Lydia,” Stiles points out. He puts a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes. He’s been letting her go on instinct, but he’s never raised a werewolf child. He’d thought it was Scott he needed the help from, but it maybe it’s been Derek all along. Derek’s the only one who’s ever had a wolfy family as a child, who knows how to translate werewolf into four-year-old. “You just be good for Lydia, and we’ll see you shortly. Love you, baby.”

“Love you, Daddy!”

More rustling before Lydia speaks. “We’ll be there in five.”

“So will we.” Stiles ends the call and sits back, eyes closed. “They weren’t supposed to follow us here,” he mutters.

“Life rarely goes as planned,” Scott points out.

Stiles knows that, he really does. But he managed to get away with it for almost five years. Now that it’s unraveling, it’s like he’s lost control completely, and he can’t see what pattern it’s trying to fall into. And that terrifies him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was looking at what was next, and decided to post a bonus chapter this week. Hope you enjoy. The next update will be the regularly scheduled Sunday update on March 31st.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Full on panic attack. Please be cautious reading if this is a trigger for you.

When they pull in front of the house, Lydia’s car is already in the driveway. Scott hesitates, then pulls the Kizashi in next to her car, giving it a spot in the family lineup. Derek’s Camaro is already there, along with the old station wagon Scott and Isaac share, and he’s pretty sure he sees Danny’s car inside the garage. Stiles doesn’t recognize the car that’s parked on the street, but considering Boyd’s standing on the front steps with Derek, he has a guess who it belongs to.

Derek’s arms are crossed, his nose lifted as he sniffs the air. When he sees Stiles, he snaps, “Get inside. Scott, call Allison. If this is going to turn into a war, I want her here.”

“We’re not your problem,” Stiles says. He refuses to be shoved aside. “Let me just get my things and Molly and we’ll get out of here. They won’t bother you if we’re gone.”

The look Derek gives him stops the flow of words. Stiles’s mouth goes dry and he has to swallow before he chokes on air.

“Get inside the house, Stiles.” Derek’s voice is low and rough, the growl underlining his words. “Your pup needs you.”

Scott grabs Stiles’s arm and pulls, dragging him into the house when his feet feel cemented to the ground.

Molly attacks him as soon as they are inside, and Stiles lifts her, burying his face in the crook of her small neck, nuzzling until she eases. She is shaking, whimpering, and he rubs her back trying to soothe her. “It’ll be okay, baby,” he murmurs. “We’re safe here.”

He wishes he believed that. Stiles was _never_ safe in Beacon Hills. His mother tried, and the pack _tried_ but in the end, he lost everything and knew he had to get out. Maybe it’s just that Stiles isn’t safe. That the where doesn’t matter, because it’s _him_.

He hears a growl, even through the door, and it shivers into his bones. “If I had fur, it’d be rising,” he jokes, but really, it isn’t a joke at all. Scott’s claws are out and Isaac’s face is furred. Molly’s whimpers are half growl, and Stiles is reminded starkly that he is the only human in this room right now.

“Lydia and Danny are in the basement,” Isaac tells him. “Molly wouldn’t go until you got here. So go down there now and shut the door.”

“I have a basement hospitable enough for people?”

“We have a finished basement.” Scott flashes a small smile, reminding Stiles just one more time that it isn’t his house anymore. “Just go, Stiles. Isaac will guard the door, and I’m going to call Allison. Don’t worry, we’ll keep you and Molly safe.”

Stiles carries her through the door and down the stairs into a bright space that seems alien inside the otherwise familiar Stilinski home. He watches Molly lift her head and sniff, snorting softly. “This part doesn’t smell like you, Daddy.”

“This part didn’t exist when I lived here before.”

“How’d they put something new _under_ the house?”

He has to laugh at her quizzical expression. “The basement was here, but it was just… storage. They finished it. Made it nice.”

“Someone had to tell them that wolves didn’t need to be chained in the dark to survive the full moon.” Lydia reaches out to take Molly, fitting her on her hip. “Well, that and we needed someplace to watch movies. Would you like some popcorn, Molly?”

Lydia seems to have a knack for just taking things as they come and Molly relaxes at her matter-of-fact way. She has Molly help with the giant movie theater popcorn maker in the corner, pouring the kernels in and starting the machine. When Stiles can finally tear his attention away from them, he sees Danny watching him.

“Seems like it might be a good time to start telling us the real story behind this pack,” he says quietly.

Stiles glances at Molly. “Not really. I can think of better ones.” Better stories and better times, really. He’s not going to get into details now, not with Molly in the room. Not when he feels like his skin might jump off his body from not knowing what’s going on upstairs. “So, do the humans get closed up in the basement often?”

“Not in a long time. Beacon Hills has been peaceful.”

Stiles can hear the accusation in Danny’s voice, the unsaid words. Beacon Hills was peaceful until Stiles came home. It doesn’t surprise him, and it’s why he can’t stay.

Lydia leaves Molly with her hands pressed against the glass of the popcorn machine, watching popcorn bubble out of the pan. “There isn’t going to be a battle now,” she says softly. She puts her hands on Stiles’s shoulders, pushing him back until she and Danny manage to get him to the couch and he sits.

“Why not?” This is edging into psychology.

The couch sinks as Danny and Lydia flank Stiles. Their bodies are human-warm, but Stiles sees the pack instinct in them staying close to him. Body, touch, leaning in and staying close. This lets his mind slip back to social instinct, which is something that makes sense. He breathes in and out and wishes he could hear something from upstairs, rather than the incessant pop-pop-pop from the corner.

“Werewolves are like high school,” Lydia says. “First meeting has to include posturing. Understanding. They’ll want to see how strong Derek is. They can’t attack unless they know they have a chance, whether they need to be sneaky or forthright.”

That’s the part that Stiles is missing. _He_ needs to see them, to get his own assessment of these wolves when he’s not scared for his family’s lives. “You’re right.” He pushes himself up, twisting his wrist out of Danny’s grip when he grabs him. “Molly, stay with Lydia and Danny. I need to go see Derek about something.”

He trusts them to keep Molly safe, and to keep her from following him. Then he’s racing back up the stairs.

Stiles kicks off his shoes when he gets to the top, closing the door silently behind him. He sees the look Isaac gives him and presses his finger to his lips, moving to a point where he can clearly see outside.

It’s not the alpha. Stiles can’t remember exactly how large the pack is; the attacks were a blur. But this particular wolf, he remembers her. He remembers seeing her around his apartment, long before the attack. He remembers seeing her talking to Cass one morning outside the building when she was scraping ice from her car. His hands curls into fists as he leans against the glass, breath leaving a light fog on it. They had been tracking him for _so long_ and he never noticed. How could he not notice a pack moving in?

She stands easily, unconcerned. Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her denim jacket, her feet slightly spread. She rocks a little back on her heels as she looks up. Derek is much taller than her, Boyd far broader, but she doesn’t look as if it bothers her at all. Her smile is easy. Lazy. A swipe of red, full lips and white teeth, a crinkle set into tanned skin and tilted eyes. Stiles supposes she is beautiful, but not to him. If he closes his eyes he sees her hand as claws. She was there that night. She was there when things ended.

He draws in a shaky breath and lets it out slowly. The woman waves as she turns away, getting into a car that waits a half a house away. Stiles catches a glint as the driver turns back, a quick flash of red. Then the front door opens and his view disappears as Derek yanks him back from the glass.

“I _told_ you to go _downstairs_.” 

Hot breath washes across Stiles’s face as Derek yanks him in close, snarling and red-eyed. There is a part of Stiles that wants to run, the same part that has been running from the other pack for months now. But this is _Derek_ and Stiles has never run from him. Not like this.

He brings his hands up and shoves hard, pushing himself away and hearing his shirt rip as he twists from Derek’s grip. “I can’t fight them if I can’t see them,” he yells back. “I need to know what I’m working against here, and this is the first time I’ve had the chance to really _look_ without fighting for my life. I need to know how _many_ there are, and what protections they have. I need to set wards, fix the house. I need to make sure you’re _safe_.”

Derek’s growl rumbles deep and low, harsh in his throat. “ _You_ need to make sure _we’re_ safe? Fuck, Stiles, you’ve got it backwards. You’re in _my_ pack territory. You’re in _my_ den. You’ve given me _their_ pup to harbor. You’ve made this _my_ war.”

“She’s my daughter.”

“She’s their get.” Derek jabs a finger at the window, pointing at nothing. “That alpha bit her, and he marked her, and her scent is all over this house now. He _made_ her, which makes her _his_ cub.”

Something cold twists in Stiles’s chest. That was a part of pack politics he didn’t know. And it’s the one thing he won’t allow. “Then we have to get out of here, because I won’t let you give her up to him. She’s not yours to give away.”

“Stiles!” Derek grabs his shoulders, yanking him closer and shaking him. “Listen to me.”

“You’re not saying anything useful!” Stiles twists, but he can’t get away this time, and the panic starts rising out of nowhere. He can’t get his daughter safe, he couldn’t protect Cass, he doesn’t know what he’s up against, not well enough to save them. He wheezes, trying to suck in air through a throat gone tight, and he feels the darkness trickling into the edges of his vision. Hands clench as he gasps futilely, and his knees go weak, folding beneath him.

He is picked up, pulled in, face pressed against Derek’s shoulder as the blackness claims him. He can’t do anything but shake, trying desperately to gain oxygen. Little tiny hitches of breath as he shivers, shuddering hard enough to make his bones ache. He has held off the panic for so long, and now it settles in and wraps him tight, trying to choke the life out of him.

There are footsteps in the distance, soft sounds that mean nothing to him. Stiles’s fingers twist into the fabric around the body that holds him, taking it as an anchor. There are words, but they seem far away, muffled sounds of random meaning. He lets his eyes close and tries to remind himself how to survive this, how to breathe: in through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow. Steady. Each tentative breath comes on a steady heartbeat, and finally he finds one that fills his lungs. He holds it until it aches, then lets it out with a soft hiss.

Sound slips back in.

“…going anywhere. Don’t be an idiot. I’m not going to give your pup up, Stiles. We’ve got room for you here. We’ll protect her. You’re not going anywhere. Don’t be an idiot.”

Stiles thinks that might be where he came in. “There are things you don’t understand.” His voice is hoarse and rough to his ears, his throat aching as if he’d been screaming. Was he screaming? He hopes to hell he wasn’t screaming, especially not where Molly could hear.

“Then maybe you should try explaining them.”

Stiles feels Derek’s words as much as hearing them, his ear pressed to Derek’s chest, body curled across him on the couch. Derek isn’t as hot as Molly; maybe wolves cool as they age, Stiles doesn’t know. It’s warm, but not uncomfortably so, not like having a burning furnace beside him. Derek is steady. Calm. Solid.

It takes a moment before Stiles can untwist his hands, easing them from the collar of Derek’s shirt. “I don’t know how much I can say and keep you safe…” His words trail off when Derek growls. Stiles slowly straightens and pushes himself to stand. He shoves his fingers through his hair, pushing it out of his face then letting it fall and catch the strands around him. He is already woven too tightly into this house; there may be nothing he can do.

“First things first,” Stiles says. “We need to find my mother’s spinning wheel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter yet! Thank you all for your lovely comments and compliments; you really help keep me writing. I had a great week with the story and am looking forward to sharing the things I've written. The next chapter will be posted Sunday, April 7.


	10. Chapter 10

“Why do we need a spinning wheel?” Lydia carefully picks her way through the things in the attic, one hand out to help Molly around and over the boxes. “That’s not a weapon, Stiles. Nor have I ever heard of fiber crafts as being particularly helpful against werewolves.”

“Maybe he thinks they need sweaters.” Scott grins at Stiles. “Sorry, dude, but you have to admit, it’s a weird request.”

“I know.” Stiles can’t manage to stay still up here. There are too many memories packed away in boxes, and the weave is so tight he can feel it closing in on him. His hands shake, tapping a rhythm in the air. “It’s weird, I know, but we have to find it. Danny said it got moved up here when he took Mom’s room.”

“That was your mom’s room?” Danny looks up from the box of books he has in his hands. “I thought it was the guest room.”

“It was. When you got here.” Stiles turns, trying to keep his movements slow. If he starts bouncing too much, it’ll either scare Molly or wind her up. Her reaction is unpredictable, and Stiles doesn’t want either option to happen right now. “It was her sewing room before. Before she…” He draws in a deep breath, lets it out. The world won’t go dark, it won’t close in, he’s not going to drown in the threads. He can talk about this. “She died when I was ten. It wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it wasn’t expected either. For a long time Dad left the sewing room just as it was, then he decided we really should have a guest room. In case we ever had guests that needed a room. But we left the spinning wheel in there because it looked kind of cool, and it reminded us of Mom.”

He shrugs, because he can’t think of a single guest that ever used that room. Scott always slept in Stiles’s room when they had sleepovers and Derek… Derek always climbed through the window into Stiles’s room and if he’d tried to hide him in the guest room that one time, Dad would definitely have noticed the fugitive in the house. “I never really got out of the habit of thinking of it as her room.”

“Why do you need the spinning wheel _now_?” Derek’s voice is a low rumble.

“Don’t growl at my Daddy,” Molly calls out from one side of the room. She holds a raggedy stuffed bear to her face, inhaling with a sigh. “Daddy, this smells like you. Can I have it?”

“Yeah, of course, baby.” Stiles tries not to figure out what that _look_ on Derek’s face means. Half bewildered, half bemused, and all irritated, maybe. He’s going to need to teach Molly not to talk back to the alpha. But she’s _four_. And she apparently doesn’t see the danger.

“Does he have a _name_ , Daddy? He looks like he ought to have a name.” Molly scrambles over boxes and around people to bring the bear to Stiles, pressing the stuffed animal into his hands. “You have to tell me his name.”

Stiles is suddenly aware of everyone watching him. The pressed-lips, barely restrained superior amusement from Lydia. The outright grin from Scott that is mirrored by Isaac. The raised eyebrows from Danny. And that same careful blank look from Derek. Stiles looks down and the one-eyed bear in his hands stares back up at him.

Yeah. _This_ bear.

Stiles sinks down to sit cross-legged and drags his daughter into his lap. “My Dad gave me this bear when I was ten,” he says quietly. “I said I was too old for stuffed animals, but he said I ought to have it anyway. He told me that my mom had picked it out special for me when she was on a trip. She couldn’t give it to me herself because she was in the hospital. When my mom was gone, it was all I had left of her. I hid him when my friends came over.” He throws an apologetic look at Scott, but it wasn’t the kind of thing boys could share at that age, no matter how close they were. “But other than that, I slept with him every night.”

Molly touches the bear gently, fingers skimming over the empty eye socket. “What happened to his eye? Can he still see?”

“I think he still sees pretty well.” Stiles pulls her close, kisses the top of her head. “As for his eye… It was loose, and I didn’t know how to sew it back on. I went to sleep one night and when I woke up, the eye was gone.”

It’s not a lie. Lying would be to say he never found it, although technically he supposes he _saw_ it, but didn’t find it on his own. Either way, what happened to the eye isn’t a story for now.

He lays his hand on the bear’s head, and lets himself see it. The thread that winds between himself and the bear is strong, but there are also a surprising amount of threads spidering delicately out to others in the room. Scott. Lydia. Derek. And one pale thread that lingers in the air, wrapping itself around Molly as she hugs the bear to her. Stiles’s hand strokes over her back, helping the thread settle in place. “He’s yours now, baby.”

She nuzzles the bear, hugging it hard and rocking slightly. “You still didn’t tell me his _name_ , Daddy.”

A soft snort from Lydia; she presses three fingers to her lips, holding the laugh in.

“Apple,” Stiles says softly. “His name is Apple.”

“After the computer?” Scott makes a face.

“It’s a long story, and it probably only made sense when I was ten. But no, not after the computer.” Stiles slowly sets Molly away from his lap. After all, what else would he name a bear that his dad said came from the Big Apple? “Why don’t you take Apple downstairs, and get him settled in our room.”

“Come on, I’ll help you.” Lydia has an armful of a box Stiles doesn’t recognize, but supposes he’ll find it later since he’s living in her room. He’ll probably trip over it when he’s trying to finally get to bed tonight.

“Stiles, I think I’ve got it.”

Stiles watches to make sure Molly’s okay going with Lydia, but as soon as they disappear down the stairs his entire attention switches to Danny. He scrambles over boxes, pushing past Isaac and Scott to get to where Danny is in the corner of the attic. Boxes have been shoved out of the way, clearing the space for an antique wooden spinning wheel.

He grins to see it. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. That’s Mom’s wheel.”

Stiles vaguely remembers her using it, sitting on a stool—he spots it wedged back in the corner. He drags the stool over and drops into it, trying to remember how her hands went, how her feet used to fit onto the pedals. The wood is smooth under his fingertips, stroking against the wheel. Leftover yarn is twisted on the spindle, a tiny fluff of wool poking out from it.

It wasn’t about the wool. He knows that now, even though he remembers her sitting for hours with soft colorful fluffs of roving sliding through her fingertips to be twisted into thread. He has looked back through their memories to see what she did, and knows she was weaving then as much as she spun; the yarn gave her a focus.

Stiles hopes he can do it without the focus. He doesn’t have time to hit the yarn shops and find the supplies. He just needs to spin out enough threads for a good, tight weave around the house.

“Are you planning on just sitting here in the attic?”

Stiles flinches, looking up. “Dude. Don’t _loom_.” He laughs then, his mind skating from spin to weave to _loom_ and seeing the humor in the phrasing. It doesn’t seem to entertain Derek, who glares down at him, or Danny, who still looks confused. At least Scott and Isaac seem occupied elsewhere, digging through a box on the other side of the attic.

“We could take it downstairs.” Stiles isn’t sure he wants to move it. “But I just want… I need to try something with it first.”

“With the spinning wheel.” Danny sounds dubious.

Stiles presses the pedal, watches it slowly start to spin. Another press with the other foot, finding an easy rhythm, back and forth. Something catches in his throat, twisting, pulling from his chest. He yanks his feet back; he can’t talk and do this at the same time.

“Yeah.” He coughs clearing his throat. “With the spinning wheel. Look. Dudes.” His gaze shifts from Danny to Derek. “I’ll explain later. Just trust me, this is more important than you know.”

Derek’s expression goes blank, and Stiles swallows hard, remembering saying those exact words before, five years ago. “Fine,” Derek says between gritted teeth. “Spin.”

Stiles doesn’t look as Derek stalks away, pushing a path between the boxes, making them move out of his way rather than take the easy route around them. At his growl, Scott and Isaac jump up to follow, and the three wolves disappear.

The tension seems less in the attic now, even with Danny’s eyes upon him. Stiles reaches out for the wheel, finds the thread that no one else can see, and he begins to spin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's bonus post week! The next chapter is short, so it will be posted on Wednesday, April 10th, and the following chapter will be back to Sundays.
> 
> Thank you everyone for following and commenting. Seriously, you guys really keep me going with your wonderful thoughts and words. I love working with this story, and I'm so glad to share it with you. Thank you. <3!!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus post, as promised!

_This is more important than you know._

Stiles reaches for the thread and sees Carolyn’s fingers—her small hands—instead. This is a new memory, one he hasn’t traveled before. Maybe the wheel found the thread and brought it back into the weave; Stiles can’t be sure. He’s still running without an operations manual, and every memory is a chance to learn something new.

“There you go.” Larger hands cover Carolyn’s, showing her how to tug just so on the wool as the wheel turns, how to let it loose from her fingertips to be spun into thread. “Nice and easy until you get the feel of it.”

“It tickles, Papa.”

Her voice is high-pitched, a giggle underlining her words. Stiles is reminded of Molly and it hits like a visceral punch to the gut to see his mother as a child next to Molly in his mind’s eye.

“Now, open your eyes.” Hands cover Carolyn’s, helping her motion. “Look around.”

“My eyes are open, Papa.”

“Not like that.” His voice is a whisper, soft and low, and Stiles hears power in it. “Open them completely. Do you see the weave?”

It is brighter than Stiles ever remembers seeing it before. Thick and heavy, laid over everything in the house. The _Weaver_ home, long before his father moved in and it became the Stilinski house. Years of threads woven tightly together, making the Weavers and Beacon Hills one and the same. Carolyn reaches out, fingers dancing lightly across the threads as she laughs. “They tingle.”

_Tingle_? Stiles files that away.

“Look at how they spread through the house. Do you think you can help me spin more threads today, Carolyn? The more we weave, the more protected our home will be.”

Carolyn laughs with delight. “Of course I can, Papa. We need to make it safe so that when Mama has Joseph, she can live at home with us.”

A faint flash of memory, of a woman heavily pregnant and a hope for a brother. 

There was never an Uncle Joseph.

Never.

Stiles feels tears at the corners of his eyes, his hands echoing Carolyn’s movements. _This_ is how she learned to spin, and _this_ is how she learned to weave, laying the groundwork around the house. He sinks into it with her, following her through the memory until his fingers ache and he cannot feel his toes. He works the wheel by rote, knowing what he should be doing and trying his hardest to do it.

The weave spreads, sinking into the ground around the house, binding it to Beacon Hills. The weave pulls the town in around them, making it protect them as well. 

_The hills lie for us, Carolyn_.

Carolyn tugs carefully at her threads, twisting them, winding them around each other and sending them into the weave. She works with careful concentration mixed with childish glee, pleased when the weave stands on its own.

Pleased until she tugs at a thread and _something tugs back_.

She squeaks, then cries out again as it is tugged harder. Something will undo her work. Something will upset the delicate balance she has created.

Something could break the weave.

She does the only thing she can, wrapping both hands tight around the thread and yanking, pulling hard until the thread breaks, then tying the weave together as quickly as she can to secure it.

The earth shakes beneath her feet, and when it settles Carolyn is eighteen and standing outside of Hale house. One hand is raised, eyes closed as she feels the weave rather than seeing it. She touches a thread and feels the world shift around her. Breath catches and she steps back, eyes flying open. “Peter.”

“Carolyn.”

He smiles and the world tilts in an entirely different way. That trip in her heart, the way it races and the way he smiles so knowingly. She likes him. She _shouldn’t_ like him, her Papa has warned her a hundred times, but still… Peter Hale is someone that draws her to him.

And what can it hurt, coming here to visit? She’ll be gone to college in the fall.

He offers her his hand and she takes it, letting her fingers twine into his. “There’s a lot of family here today,” he says. “Everyone wants to see my brother’s new baby. I think his older kid is feeling a bit out of sorts from all the attention the baby’s been getting. How do you feel about a bit of toddler entertainment?”

Carolyn loves kids. “Sure, I can do that. What’s his name?”

“The baby’s Derek, and his older sister is Laura.” Peter tugs, and together they walk towards the house. “She’s a bright kid. Very outgoing. Probably going to rule the house before long.” He laughs, and Carolyn smiles that way that says she doesn’t really get his private joke. Stiles does.

She feels it when they cross the threshold—a natural weave—and she opens her senses without thinking. The light of the threads is nearly blinding, pulling her in and pushing her out at the same time. It screams _Hale_ and tells her there is no room for a Weaver here.

She screams before she can stop herself; Peter catches her when she reaches the door. He holds her shoulders gently, looking down at her in confusion. “Why don’t I go get Laura and we can take her out for ice cream,” he suggests.

Anything. Anywhere but here. She touches his face, and nods quickly. “Please.”

By the time the child is buckled into the car, Carolyn can’t figure out where to look. The world is restless, moving beneath her, and she knows that as long as the Weavers are here in town, the Hales can’t be as well. They will never be safe, their weave will never be sure. Her Papa is right.

She needs to figure out how to make them leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short part! Although at this point, this is the last super short chapter I've written. The next update will be on Sunday, April 14th.
> 
> Thank you all for being here! Thank you for your comments, and for making me love working on this piece. I found a note last night that I originally planned for this to be roughly 20 chapters long, and about 20k for a word count. At this time, I've written 19 chapters and it is almost 31k long, and I'm definitely not done. This story is bigger than I expected, and it is y'all who make it so easy to just keep going with it. So thank you. <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I may have played fast and loose with canon timelines. This is in part on purpose, and in part because I have a memory like a sieve. Just be aware that if you think I've messed with the dates, I'm probably aware of it already. :)

Stiles wakes with a small body burning against his side, her arm holding his hand like a teddy bear, pressed to her cheek. His mouth is dry, his throat burning, and a headache rages in his temples. He shifts, and Molly whimpers as he pulls his hand away. “I’m not going far,” he rasps, and presses a kiss to her forehead. Just far enough to let himself sit up.

“Are you going to tell me how a spinning wheel nearly killed you?”

Stiles winces at the rough, sharp growl in Derek’s voice. “What do you mean?” He knows he went into one of his mother’s memories, but that’s all he’s sure of. He _thinks_ he might have worked on the wards to this house at the same time. His gaze drifts to Derek, trying to think of him as an infant, born just before his mother went off to college. The timeline has to fit, but it seems so surreal to think of them that way. To think of his mother babysitting for the Hales.

_Dating_ a Hale.

Stiles shivers; Peter never impressed him and he’s thankful he didn’t somehow end up a Hale himself. His mother had better taste than that, in the end.

“Here.” The bed sinks as Derek sits and holds out a bottle of water. “Molly started screaming, then Danny yelled down that you’d passed out.”

“Molly started screaming?” Stiles is taking in data and holding on to it, desperate for his laptop so he can map it all out, add it to what he already knows. He’s trying to build a knowledge base on his own, because as near as he can figure, every other Weaver is dead and gone. If he ever meets another member of his family, he’s going to shake the information right out of their brain. “She started screaming _before_ Danny yelled?”

“Like she knew what had happened,” Derek confirms. “She’s been glued to your side since I carried you downstairs.”

Crap. Stiles looks and yes, the thread binding him to Derek has thickened, shining with light. There’s another one from Derek to Molly that wraps around Derek’s smallest finger (that makes him smile). Stiles is supposed to be cutting the cord, not winding himself deeper into the weave. 

“What did Danny say he saw?” Stiles stalls, wanting to know everything that he can before he figures out what to explain and what to leave out.

“You started spinning and your eyes went vacant. Then you just keeled over.”

Stiles  snorts softly. “When I was a kid, I remember wondering why comic books always had magic being bright lights and flashy sparkles. I thought it would be invisible. Turns out I was right; the only person who sees the flash is the one doing it.”

Derek waits, silent.

Stiles sighs. “It’s… a long story. And I don’t think it’s in your best interest to actually know all of it.”

“I have several people in this house insisting that you’re pack, even though you walked out on us,” Derek grumbles. “So you tell me. Are you pack? Because if you are, that means it’s in my best interest to know.”

Stiles wants to say no. The right answer is no. The best answer would be to pack Molly up and leave right now and let the rogue pack follow them out of Beacon Hills. Stiles could run and eventually they’d find a way to kill the alpha and Molly would be free.

It would work.

Except Stiles can’t just _see_ the weave tightening around them, he can feel it, sense the way he is bound into this group even more strongly than when they were in high school. Their acceptance builds threads. He presses his lips, then opens his mouth, then waves one hand as he looks away. “Yeah. I’m pack.” He leaves his hand hanging in mid-air in front of Derek. “Does that mean you’re going to feel the need to get your scent all over me? I’m pretty sure I mostly smell like Molly right now. Our little pack of two.”

He doesn’t expect Derek to actually wrap his fingers around the offered wrist, to pull it in and rub the back of Stiles’s hand against his stubble. He doesn’t expect a nose to be pressed to the soft inner flesh of his wrist, to feel teeth grip him, holding tightly.

Stiles looks at Derek, and tries not to breathe. Anything to keep his pulse under control. “Dude.” He keeps his voice low, both for Molly and the other wolves in the house. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

“Why are you immune to the bite?” Derek’s teeth scrape over that skin before he releases his hand. Stiles shoves both hands into his lap, twisting his fingers together and pressing down to hold himself still.

“I’m a Weaver.”

Derek waits, and Stiles smiles blandly. He answered the question; it’s up to Derek to ask another one, and if Stiles waits long enough, he’s sure he will.

“And why did you pass out at a spinning wheel?”

Stiles’s smile grows. “I’m a Weaver. Want to try a third question, because I’m pretty sure I can keep this one up all night.”

“Is that why Molly screamed?”

The smile falls away and Stiles makes a face. “Maybe. I think so. She’s a Weaver by blood, but she’s also a wolf, and I have no idea how those two things interact. I’m flying blind here, Derek. Finding out you’re the last member of a family with a very specific arcane tradition isn’t easy. If it weren’t for the memories—”

“Memories.” Derek seizes on that word. Of _course_ he seizes on that word. “What _kind_ of memories?”

This is the point when Stiles wants to run. He doesn’t share this. He didn’t even share it with _Cass_ and he shared a whole brand new lifetime with her. He wanted to keep her safe from all this, avoid it, but then the pack came in and made a mess of that idea.

Maybe not saying anything wasn’t the right approach.

“Ancestral memories.” He pushes off the bed and starts pacing, running his fingers through his hair, shaking them through the threads that attach there, gentle strands that lead off into the air around him, tying him back into the weave of this house. “My mom. Although I think if I could figure out how, if I could find the right touchstone, I could go back further. But I don’t have any real control over it. They come when I sleep, or sometimes when I’m weaving. Or when I was spinning. It’s all part of the same talent, and it all works together. The thing is, I don’t always know what I’m doing with it.”

“But that doesn’t stop you from doing it anyway.” Derek sounds amused, and when Stiles turns back he thinks he catches the ghost of a smile.

“So glad to entertain you.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “And of course not. It has to be done. Someone has to maintain the weave, and it’s so fucked up here in Beacon Hills, and I’m trying to figure out why. My mom tried fixing it, and it killed her. I have to get it right this time. I thought I found the solution, but I guess I was wrong.”

Derek nods sharply. “Leaving. That was your solution.”

“Exactly. It was the only way…” No, not this part. Stiles isn’t ready to get into these details yet. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, she tried to stay, and that wasn’t it. I tried to leave, and that didn’t work either. I need to figure out what _will_ work this time. And in the meantime, I need to fix the weave around the house. It’s a ward, to keep out people who intend to harm those within. At least… I’m pretty sure that was the intent of the ward. I was watching her learn to weave it when things went sideways inside the memory.”

Something to do with the Hale house. Stiles latches on to that detail, knowing that it’s important. It keeps coming down to the Weavers and the Hales.

He digs through the duffle bag, finding the padded container at the bottom and pulling out his laptop. It only takes him a moment to get it set up and booted. He doesn’t need a network (although it helpfully finds about six that it asks if he wants to join), not for this. Instead he pulls up his files of information. The few Weavers he has managed to find over the years, their biographical information, where they lived, and when they died. Because every last one of them has died.

“What I need to know is how many of them lived with werewolves.” Stiles talks under his breath as he types. “Beacon Hills might be unique. My great grandfather bought this house, and moving here might have changed something.”

“I thought you moved here after your mother died.” Derek frowns like there’s something at the edge of his memory, and Stiles suspects he knows what it is. He wonders if it is possible to unweave that unweaving and put back to rights everything his mother took away. He suspects it might make things too confusing, so he just shakes his head.

“It’s complicated.” Because explaining a part of it means explaining all of it, and trying to make sense of it to Scott and everyone else he grew up with who can’t remember him younger than the moment he first appears in their memories. “Table it until I have the vocabulary that would make sense to tell the story.”

When he glances over his shoulder, Derek is still sitting on the edge of the bed, quietly watching him work. It is the wrong room, but Stiles still gets a vicious sense of deja vu. They have been there before, and he is fairly certain right now that they will be something like this again. Derek and the bed, Stiles and the computer. It feels natural.

It feels a bit like coming home.

Stiles looks back at the bed. “I need to go over some things. You should go.” He pauses, and can’t resist adding. “Through the door.”

“I’ve stopped using the window since I started living here,” Derek says dryly. He puts the abandoned water bottle on the corner of the table. “Drink. Danny thinks you’re dehydrated.”

“What are you going to tell them?” Because there will be more questions, and Stiles wants to be ready for them. Lydia, especially. She’ll want to dig into the entire concept, and maybe Stiles could use that help.

If he can get past the gut instinct thought that he can’t let her in. Can’t let her bind herself to his weave. He pinches the bridge of his nose, and doesn’t give Derek the chance to answer. “Just… tell them whatever you want, but tell them I’m not ready to talk about it more yet.”

Stiles could swear he feels the touch of Derek’s fingers above his head, resting against the threads that spread out from him, just for a moment. “Don’t scare us like that again,” Derek orders. “If you’re part of this pack, you tell us what you’re doing and when, and what we should expect. No more surprises.”

There is nothing Stiles can say to that but a lie. “No more surprises.”

There are no guarantees in life; Stiles knows that by now. No matter how much he promises, the next surprise is still sure to bite him in the ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! Talking! I'm so proud of them, even if it's not much.
> 
> Also, if you didn't see, a backstory was posted in the series--[Everything's FINE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/760205)\--yesterday, so go take a look if you'd like to see how things were when the pack moved into the Stilinski house not long after Stiles left for college.
> 
> So many thanks for the lovely comments! So glad to have you along for this ride with me. The next update will be on Sunday, April 21st, and it may be fairly late in the day. I'm away next weekend for a tae kwon do tournament and I don't know how coherent I'll be on Sunday morning while we get ourselves packed out of the hotel, or what kind of internet access I'll have. But I promise, if I can't put it up while there, I'll take care of it as soon as we get home.


	13. Chapter 13

“Who are you?”

Stiles rises swiftly out of slumber at the sound of Molly’s voice raised in question. His daughter is sitting up in bed, legs crossed and the ragged bear Apple hugged to her chest, looking at the intruder in their room. He blinks to clear the fuzziness from his eyes. “Allison.”

“Hey.” She is sitting on the edge of the bed and leans in to pull him into a hug, holding on tight. “You came back. And oh God, you brought someone with you. Scott told me, but still… oh my God. _Stiles_.”

Stiles is strangely okay with this, with the fact that Allison is hugging him like it’s been forever and doesn’t seem to want to let go. Maybe it’s the way she doesn’t seem to want anything from him, and there’s no ancient crush to poke at his nerves. She’s just comforting.

“Are you my Auntie Allison?”

Allison laughs with a huff of air against Stiles’s cheek. She pulls back slowly and tucks a stray long, dark curl out of the way behind her ear so that she can smile at Molly. It’s disarming, but then, Allison always has been that way. She might be one scary bitch with a crossbow, but she’s also the most calming person Stiles knows. “I guess I am,” she says. “And Lydia tells me that you’re Molly.”

“I am!” Molly sets Apple aside and shifts to her knees, bouncing on the bed. “I like Auntie Lydia a lot, and she said you’re the best. But she said that I’m more fun to shop with,” Molly confides like it’s a secret, and Allison laughs all over again.

“I like shopping.” Allison lowers her voice almost to a whisper, “But _no one_ shops like Lydia. She does it like it’s an Olympic sport. I can barely keep up.”

Because Allison’s sport is archery, Stiles figures. He wonders what other things she might have added to her arsenal in the last years. She’s an Argent; hunting is in her blood, just like magic’s in his.

“Can I hug you?”

“ _May_ I,” Stiles corrects, but Molly isn’t listening. As soon as Allison opens her arms and nods, Molly is in them, burrowing her nose against Allison’s throat and inhaling, then sighing as she relaxes there.

“You smell like _here_ ,” Molly says softly. “I like the way it smells here. Kind of like Daddy’s favorite shirt.”

“Your favorite shirt?” One eyebrow goes up as Allison looks at him, and Stiles remembers quickly just how _perceptive_ she could be.

“I don’t know—”

“The black one with the funny thing on it, daddy. And the plaid one. You always wear them together.” Molly bounces again, moving closer to the edge of the bed so she can slither off of it. “Do you want me to get them for you? You could wear them today.”

Right. That shirt. Those shirts. “No,” Stiles says quickly. “Those can stay in my bag. I had something else in mind for today.” Like a pair of jeans and anything but those shirts. He doesn’t plan on them even making it out of the duffle while he’s here. “Why don’t you go see if anyone’s up who can give you some breakfast, baby. And remember your rule.”

“No red things!” Molly blows a kiss. “I know Daddy. I hear Auntie Lydia in there. Maybe she’ll give me some cereal. We bought Honey Nut Cheerios yesterday for me.” She is still in her pajamas, but Stiles figures that doesn’t really matter. He calls after her not to forget the potty as she pads off on bare feet.

“Favorite shirt, huh?” Allison asks.

“I don’t wear it that often,” Stiles mutters. Now that Molly has gone it occurs to him that he’s sitting in bed with just sleep pants on and Allison is here. She reaches out while he’s thinking and her fingers graze over the still rough and red bite on his shoulder. Stiles catches her hand. “Don’t.”

“Let me guess, this is something else you don’t want to talk about?” Her hand drops back to her lap. Her eyes are kind. Worried. “Scott says you’ve clammed up. Isaac thinks you’re upsetting Scott.”

“How did that even happen?” He doesn’t mean to change the subject, but at the same time, he does. Because even though he’s asked Scott (and avoided asking Isaac), Allison will probably have something different to say about it. “When I left, you and Scott were still perfect together. I thought you had this forever thing.”

“What makes you think we don’t?” Allison shrugs one shoulder, her head cocked.

“Isaac.”

Allison’s smile widens. “Isaac’s perfect for him, and he’s exactly what Scott needs. Don’t worry, Stiles, we’re all where we need to be. You don’t need to be pack mom for us.”

He can hear the unsaid words, that he _left_ and they don’t need him anymore. Which is what he wanted, and doesn’t explain at all why it hurts. “I didn’t think I did.” His voice is tighter than he means it to be, and he forces himself to relax. “I’m not a wolf,” he says. “Just Molly. I’m not going to change when the full moon rises tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” She reaches out, touching the mark again, and Stiles forces himself to stay still through it. “You were bitten, Stiles. Lydia’s a unique case and we still don’t know why she’s immune.”

“You don’t?” That surprises him. “I thought you’d have figured that out by now. Maybe she’s—maybe we’re—” The thought that strikes—that Lydia could somehow be a Weaver—is actually severely disturbing, and not at all plausible since he’s met Lydia’s parents and he knows they aren’t related to him. And she’s not adopted; that was Jackson. He huffs a sigh and runs his fingers through his hair, shaking the strands out. “It’s because I’m a Weaver. I didn’t let it take hold, and if Molly were older, she might have been able to do the same thing. But I was hurt enough that I couldn’t do it for her. So I don’t know what life’s going to be like for her now.”

“We’ll take care of your bug,” Allison assures him, hand tangling with his. She holds his hand between both of hers, squeezing lightly. “Derek gave the whole _pack is pack_ speech this morning.”

Stiles can’t help the surprised laugh. “Well, that’s different than when I arrived a couple of days ago.”

“Is it really?” Allison squeezes his hand again, but mercifully she lets the topic rest there. “So, Scott called me last night and said that the pack that attacked you is still following you. Do they want Molly that badly?”

“It’s not Molly.” Stiles stops, makes a cutting motion with his free hand. “Strike that, it is Molly. And it’s me. It’s just not about her being bitten, not originally, although that gives them leverage now. And maybe some control over her, which frankly, scares the shit out of me.”

“What is it about you two that they want?”

Her voice is so calm and easy that it makes Stiles want to talk. “Did you go into psychiatry when I wasn’t looking? Because I thought Lydia said her friend’s name was Karen and she actually lives around here.”

“Medieval English and History,” she replies easily. “With a side of Lacrosse, which cracked everyone up when they heard I’d started playing. Except Lydia. I think her exact words were _break some heads_.”

“Did you?” It’s off-topic, but Stiles doesn’t really mind. “And dude, lacrosse is a sport, not a subject.”

“I spent enough time on it freshman year that it might as well have been my major,” Allison says dryly. “I had a lot of catching up to do, which I did, then it helped keep me sane through everything else. I also found the nearest archery range, and a shooting range, and I started martial arts. I have my first dan in taekwondo now.”

Stiles blinks. “And I thought you kicked butt before.”

She grins. “We’re still friends, so you’re safe. And that’s what I’m here for, bringing my scary arsenal along with me.”

“On a _plane_?”

Allison hesitates, then looks vaguely embarrassed. “I have a trunk full of Medieval recreationist weapons, and an authorization to carry them because my job requires it. I give seminars at colleges while I’m working on my Ph.D at Harvard. It’s actually an amazing cover for a hunter, not to mention the useful information that I’ve dug up.”

This is something Stiles understands. “Yeah, I did pretty much the same thing, only without the sharp objects and black belt training.” He tugs his hand free of her, and spreads both hands. “Still a squishable and very normal human.”

“With a wolf pack after you.”

His hands fall to his side. “Okay, maybe not so normal. I’m a Weaver.”

“Which is?”

“My mother’s maiden name.” She’s easier to talk to than Derek, and Stiles can relax a little as he tries to make himself open up. “Weavers are like Hales, or Argents. Or any of the other wolf and hunter families I’ve found. Only they are so much more secretive, and generally speaking, they are also very, very dead.”

He can see the moment things click over in her mind. “So the pack wants _you_ dead?”

“Or to use us,” Stiles admits. “I’m not sure which. And I have no idea if anyone like Molly has ever existed before. I’m not even sure how often magical families have associated with werewolf families in the past. They seem to be oil and water.”

“Which explains how you’ve been part of a pack since Scott was bitten. Kind of like having a hunter in a pack.”

“Exactly.” Stiles likes talking to Allison because she sees the twists and turns the way he does, but she doesn’t poke and prod like Lydia will. And better yet, he won’t have to sit there trying to explain to Lydia because he knows Allison will. It’s a bit like a message service: tell one girl, and the other one is sure to know within the hour.

And maybe he’ll have a chance to get dressed before Lydia decides to come talk to him about it.

“So what I need you for…” Stiles pauses when Allison raises both eyebrows at him. “What? Scott might have called you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t need you, too.” He pulls his knees up, the blankets still covering him as he leans forward, elbows resting on his legs. “You have the best access to useful historical resources of anyone I know. And right now, I think we need to know everything we can find out about magical families and werewolves. Why they do interact, why they don’t, and which ones are still alive. I’ll give you access to the research I’ve got.” He makes a face. “Even the things that are just in my head, at least as much as I can. Getting it all out might be difficult.”

“We’ll work together on it,” Allison says. “You, me, Lydia and Danny. Team Human.”

Stiles flinches slightly. “I really don’t think Danny likes me at all any more, and I’m not sure why.”

Allison bites her lip and looks down at where her hands curl together in her lap. “Danny doesn’t hate you, don’t worry about that. But he’s probably the most human of us. Sometimes I think he’s the glue holding us all together as a pack.” A moment passes before she shrugs. “Anyway. I know where some things are kept that I can have Danny get for us electronically. He’s good at that.”

“I know.” And that reminds Stiles of _something_ that doesn’t make a lot of sense, except that it’s _there_ in his head. He shoves the blankets down and finally crawls out of his cocoon so that he can get to his duffle bag. “Hang on, I’ve got something.” He digs down to a small pocket buried deep inside, something that’s meant for a spare folded up ten dollar bill, or maybe a key. He’s got a memory stick there, and when he pulls it out and really _looks_ at it, he can see the faint lines of a frayed weave that are starting to rebuild. “Huh. Give this to Danny, okay? He’ll probably find it interesting.”

Allison takes it from him and tucks it into her pocket. Stiles can see the strands sink into her threads, almost as if the stick is frantic to become a part of the Beacon Hills weave. Yeah. That must’ve been meant to come home at some point.

She kneels next to him on the floor and wraps her arms around him again. “I’m so glad you’re back, Stiles,” she whispers. “It feels right, the pack being together again. We’ve been fractured without you.”

Stiles bites his tongue because that was his intention. Sort of. He’d expected things to rebuild when he cut a giant Stiles-sized hole out of the weave, but he hadn’t done it permanently enough. That’s what happens when you aren’t given an instruction manual.

“Daddy!” Molly’s voice is shrill, piercing throughout the house. “Can Auntie Lydia paint my nails pink and green? She says even pups ought to have fabulous claws!”

Stiles blinks as Allison starts giggling. His mouth opens, closes, and he shakes his head. “Sure, fine, baby.” He doesn’t bother yelling; she’ll hear him anyway. Because this, this is his life now. Back with the pack, his secrets slowly falling to pieces around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Allison has returned! Okay, maybe I'm the only one excited by that. :) Thank you all for being here and reading! I am so thankful for all of your comments.
> 
> If you happened to miss it, I wrote another backstory piece [Light the Corners, Catch My Dreams](http://archiveofourown.org/works/768965) for this series this week. It starts to look into what happened with Stiles just after his dad died. More will come out in this WiP as time goes on, I promise. I'm just about to writing some of those scenes now! (Kinda can't wait, actually)
> 
> I'm buried under deadlines, so I'm sticking with weekly posts for a little while. The next update will be on Sunday, April 28th. Take care until then!


	14. Chapter 14

Allison and Danny closet themselves in Danny’s room to discussion information and where they can get it. Danny emerges to claim Stiles’s laptop and disappears again, leaving Stiles at loose ends. With the other pack in town and Molly in danger, everyone lingers in the house, making it seem filled with energy that Stiles doesn’t want to feel.

He sits down once at the spinning wheel—now settled into the corner of the room he has borrowed from Lydia—but Derek appears as soon as he touches the wheel and sets it spinning lightly. There is a soft growl as Derek sinks down to sit on the bed, and a moment later Molly is there as well, chastising the alpha for growling at her daddy.

It makes it impossible to concentrate on spinning, so Stiles lets it go.

He needs an outlet for his energy, and he needs information.

“We should go to Hale house,” he says.

“Where’s that?” Molly bounces on the bad and Derek shifts uncomfortably.

“It’s where Derek grew up.” Stiles leaves out the specifics of the connection with his own family, since he still hasn’t figured out how that fits into things yet, and he’s pretty sure Derek doesn’t know about it. Or might just not remember. He licks his lip, then catches his lower lip in his teeth, worrying at it while he thinks. “It’s connected with this one, somehow, and I’m still trying to figure out how the two families impacted each other. I know there was something important, but my mom’s family didn’t write anything down. And most of the records the Hales had are gone in the fire.”

“That leaves the Argents,” Derek growls softly.

“I’ve got Allison working on that already with Danny.” Stiles makes a motion with his hand as if that’s all tied up neatly. “It also leaves the weave itself. And I think that if I can see it in person, not just in memories, it’ll make more sense to me.” He jumps up, hands spread wide as if he could feel the threads, gathering them together in front of him. “It’s like I said last night—there’s something between your family and mine and I need to get it right this time. So I need to look at the weave at Hale house.”

“Can I come?” Molly slides off the bed. “I’m bored. Uncle Danny is _busy_ and Auntie Lydia had to go _out_ and Auntie Allison seems really nice but she’s all boring right now too with Uncle Danny.”

“Sounds like that leaves Scott, Isaac, Boyd and myself to go with you.” Derek stands. He glances down as Molly leans against his leg; when she lifts her arms, he hesitates before carefully raising her up and settling her against his hip. His big hands are awkward, trying to find the best way to hold her carefully as her arms go around him and her head tilts onto his shoulder.

She makes a soft sound and Stiles bites back a laugh. It’s almost as if she’s purring.

“Are you sure it’s safe for Molly to go?” Stiles is torn on this; he doesn’t want to leave Molly here without him, but if Derek’s going to insist on bringing the entire wolf pack along to watch out for Stiles, he won’t leave her unprotected either.

“I think it’s better than splitting up the wolves.”

A flash of memory slides through Stiles’s mind, one that he’s fairly certain isn’t his. Hales, and so many of them, humans and wolves mixed. Multiple generations, and at least a dozen or more of the fanged variety. It reminds him that this pack is small. Tiny, compared to most others that have settled in and become a part of a town. They’ll grow as they get older and potentially reproduce, but they are still a small family compared to others.

Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair. “Fine. Let me pack up some things for Molly, and I’m going to need everyone’s help when we’re there. She’ll want to explore, and I’m assuming the place is still a burnt out husk. Maybe Scott and Isaac can take her outside. She’d like the woods.”

“We’ll make sure your pup stays safe.” Derek sets her down carefully, then crouches down closer to her eye level. “Whatever we say, you listen,” he tells her. “There will be a lot of interesting smells there for you to poke through, but you can’t go anywhere without an adult, and if they tell you to stop, you have to stop right away, because something might be dangerous. Do you understand?”

He speaks to her as if she is a small adult, and she listens soberly, nodding when he finishes. “Okay, Uncle Derek. I’ll be good.” She throws her arms around his neck, pulling herself close for a hug and a kiss on his cheek, then releases him to dash off. Stiles is always amazed at how much noise one small body can make racing around; he’s sure she can’t possibly sneak up on any of the others in the house, supernatural hearing or not.

Derek doesn’t leave, but Stiles ignores him. He thinks about taking the spinning wheel, but suspects that using it in Hale house could be too much too soon, so he nudges it into the corner and does his best to put it out of sight (but not out of mind). “I’m going to get changed,” he says before he started looking through his bag for something he doesn’t mind getting dirt and soot all over. “Is there a reason why you’re still looming here?”

“What do you think the Hale house has to do with anything?” There’s something vulnerable in Derek’s gaze.

Stiles sighs. He should have known he wouldn’t be allowed to keep the details hidden. “It’s just… the two families are linked. My mom used to know Peter. Before I was born.” He sees Derek’s brow furrow in confusion. “Look, I said it was complicated, right? What she did—it means you forgot her. You met her. I don’t know, maybe you even met me. But we didn’t know anything about each other when we met after Scott was bitten. She um, she actually dated Peter.” He makes a face. “Doesn’t say much for her taste. I’m glad she married my dad. No offense.”

“He has his issues.” Derek’s expression is blank, but Stiles can read between the lines. Family is family, and psychotic is psychotic, and it isn’t easy to reconcile the two.

“Let’s just go.”

It takes some time to get everyone sorted and on the way. Allison and Danny barely notice when they leave. Stiles shifts the car seat in the Kizashi to the center so that Isaac and Scott can sit in the back seat with Molly. Derek takes the front without asking. Boyd is called before they leave and will meet them there, and on the way Derek texts someone, fingers flying over his phone’s keyboard.

In a house full of unnaturally uncanny hearing, Stiles guesses that texting must be the simplest way to communicate without being overheard. Which makes him irritatingly curious to know what’s being said.

“Lydia will be here soon.” Derek puts his phone in his pocket as they pull up by the house. “I want at least one other human on the premises. It’s too close to the full moon.”

“Doesn’t that make the humans _more_ in danger, not _less_?” Stiles asks. He climbs out of the car and presses the button to lock it. They are out in the middle of nowhere, but with a violent werewolf pack around, that doesn’t make him any less nervous. He’s heard all the stories about dangerous people hiding in the back seat with knives and _no thanks_. He’s got enough to worry about.

“It means that two humans are better than one.” Derek’s voice goes flat. 

Molly stops as soon as she gets out of the car, standing there with her feet braced and hands out. Her little nose sniffs the air, and a faint whine slips out. She drops to the ground and rolls in dead leaves left by autumns past while Stiles watches, confused. 

“Baby, what’re you doing?”

“I like how this place smells, Daddy.” She pauses on her back, looking up at him. “I want to smell like it. And I want it to smell like me.”

“It smells like smoke.”

The look she gives Derek says clearly that she doesn’t agree. “It smells like your jacket,” she says. “The one you have in your room. And it smells like you and Uncle Scott and Uncle Isaac, and it even smells like Daddy just a little bit. I smell all kinds of things here, like leaves and smoke and something funny I don’t like but that’s not the thing I smell mostest so it’s okay. Don’t you smell all those things?”

Derek blinks, and roughly inhales. He lets it out slowly as Scott and Isaac do the same. 

By the time Boyd gets there, Molly is burrowing through leaves, collecting them into piles with her hands, and Stiles is watching the wolves smell the air and watch their pup play.

“I… need to get inside.” Stiles is curious to look at the weave out here, but he _needs_ to see it indoors. He needs to find the remnants of his mother here, and see how this house fits in with his own. His gaze flicks from Molly to the house and back again.

“I’m okay, Daddy.” She huffs and rolls her eyes and he’d wonder where she’d picked that up except he knows it’s his own bad habits coming back to haunt him. Once upon a time his dad told him that he’d have kids that were complete mini-Stileses; he just wishes Dad were around to see her.

“We’ll stay with her, dude.” Scott claps Stiles on the back, then drops to all fours. Even at twenty-three he’s a giant kid, letting Molly bury him in leaves so he can emerge growling like a monster to get her. Her shrieks of laughter are happy as Isaac joins them on the ground in a puppy pile of silliness.

Boyd nods. “We’ve got this,” he says.

It’s hard to turn away, but Stiles does, crossing the dead lawn to climb the stairs into the burnt shell. The smoke assaults his nose, even after all these years, but more than that, he feels the tug of the weave that lies around the house. He never noticed it before, not when he was younger, but now it draws him in, almost whispering his name.

Derek comes up beside him, and the stranglehold of threads eases; they cross the threshold together.

“You all right?” Derek’s hand falls to Stiles’s shoulder, squeezing slightly.

“Yeah. Fine.” He’s not, though. He’s not fine at all, and he has a feeling not fine is about to turn into bad fairly quickly. “Dude? Just do me a favor. Catch me before I hit the ground.”

Stiles throws open his senses, and he lets it all come in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! See, Stiles is starting to open up, just a bit. Sort of. :) Also, if you happened to miss it, another small bit of backstory from the first year after Stiles left was posted this week: [Pages Torn and Frayed](http://archiveofourown.org/works/776453).
> 
> So, the next update will be on Sunday, May 5th. BUT.
> 
> **Do you want a bonus update? I have a challenge for you!!**
> 
> I am over 9,400 views on this story, and I can see 10,000 looming up ahead, which is a big milestone in my mind. If I reach 10,000 views before Wednesday, I will post a bonus chapter then to celebrate! If I reach 10,000 views after Wednesday but before Sunday, I'll post the celebration bonus next week on Wednesday. How can you help? If you love this story, help bring in new readers. 
> 
> Me, I'm just so excited to have gotten this far already. We are over 20k words this week, and looking at 10k views, and I love you all for being here with me and encouraging me so much with comments. This is chapter 14, and my goal for today is to finish writing chapter 21. There's some fun stuff coming, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it. <3 to all of you!!


	15. Chapter 15

He stands in his mother’s footsteps in the foyer of the Hale house. She has one hand on her belly and a frown twists her expression, easing when Peter speaks.

“I’m sorry they misunderstood,” he says quietly. Peter places his hand on Carolyn’s shoulder and Stiles tries not to shiver under the touch. 

He smiles with her lips, mouth forming words he only now remembers her speaking. “It’s all right. This is my first time back to visit since leaving for college, and they had no idea I was married. But I just… I didn’t expect them to know about…” Her cheeks heat warmly, her arms cross around her stomach. “I haven’t even told…”

Somewhere in the distance a child yells and someone growls loudly. Carolyn turns to look, brows furrowing at the sound. Peter squeezes slightly, and her attention returns to him; his smile puts her at ease.

“There are some things we ought to talk about.” His hand slides down her arm to catch her hand between both of his. “Things I probably should have told you when we were dating, but I think it’s just as important for you to know them now if we’re going to remain close friends.”

“What is it?”

A muscle tightens in Peter’s jaw, and when he speaks, Stiles is surprised, knowing anyone else in this house could hear what he is saying. Anyone who is a wolf, that is, and he doubts the humans would be left in the dark.

“I’m a werewolf,” he says quietly. And he waits, expecting something in return.

Stiles can feel her anxiety in the way her hand drops to her belly, lays there protectively against the still flat surface of her body. But there is no surprise, and she isn’t wary. “Why are you telling me this _now_?” she asks. Because it is a _risk_. Secrets are meant to be kept, not shared, and secrets like this come with prices. Stiles wonders what price the Hales might demand from the Weavers, and what they know of her family in return.

“They could smell the way your body has changed since getting pregnant. So can I. I can smell his scent all over you.” His nose wrinkles, a small growl slipping loose at his displeasure. “I’m glad you’re happy, Carolyn, but I’d always intended to tell you this so that _we_ would be together.”

She takes a step back as Peter’s nostrils flare in anger. “I’m married, Peter. We weren’t—we weren’t meant to be.”

His smile is sharp and thin, feral with a hint of vicious that makes her shiver. “Because you’re a Weaver and I’m a Hale? There is always a first time, Carolyn. And now here you are, bringing another Weaver into the world.”

She steps back, putting distance between them, her free hand lifting to keep him at bay. “He’s a _Stilinski_ ,” she says quietly.

“Just because you didn’t follow your ancestors’ traditions and keep your name doesn’t mean he isn’t your blood.” Peter’s eyes flash, and Carolyn’s heart stutters in her chest. “He is a Weaver. He is _yours_.” He pauses before he bares teeth in a sharp smile. “You’ve always known who we are, haven’t you? You’ve always known what it means to be a Hale.”

Her skin warms. “I didn’t know when we were first dating,” she admits. “My father told me when I was accepted to school.” If it played a factor in her decision to leave Peter behind, Stiles doesn’t know. He tries to open his mind more to this memory, to see how the weave is a part of it. The images of Peter and himself overlay the delicate torn weave of the house, knitting into it, restoring themselves.

Stiles has a feeling that might be a very, very bad thing.

“We could never have been together.” She steps forward this time, hand coming up to lightly touch his cheek with Stiles’s hand. He does his best not to cringe; he still remembers Peter all too well to feel comfortable with his mother’s fond goodbye. “I’m a Weaver, you’re right, and we barely manage to exist in the same town. It would be wrong for us to be together. To breed together. Weavers can’t be wolves, Peter. I’m sorry.”

_Weavers can’t be wolves_.

Stiles begs to differ; there’s a very small Weaver who is also a wolf right outside playing in the leaves with her new pack. It may have been the rule once, but he has to change it now. For Molly’s sake.

A small child runs in, and Stiles stumbles on Carolyn’s feet to see a six year old Derek staring up at him with wide eyes, curious before he smiles. “Hi!”

“This is Carolyn.” Peter takes advantage of her pause to move by her side, one hand at her back. “You remember the pictures from when you were small, right?”

“Laura always says you’re pretty.” Derek holds his arms wide, and with a small, soft sound, Carolyn drops to her knees. The boy moves into the hug she offers in return, affectionate and easy with her. “She’s right, you are. I like the dots on your face.”

She laughs weakly, and Stiles tries not to shake, sitting there, holding such a small Derek with his mother’s arms. “They’re called moles,” she says quietly. “Your uncle used to tell me they were my magical dots. He’d try to connect them, and make patterns with them.”

Derek stares at her, expression twisted as serious as any small child could be. He raises one finger to touch the dot high on her cheekbone, and Stiles realizes that her moles follow a different pattern than his own. Derek touches them in turn, grinning. “I see a wolf.”

She laughs, startled. “I’m sure you do.” She stands again slowly. “I have to go Derek, but maybe I’ll come by and see you and Laura. You’ll be sure to hug her for me, won’t you?”

Derek nods. “I will!”

Carolyn walks out the door, the threshold clinging to her body like spiderwebs until she breaks free. Stiles sees the weave through her eyes, the way it stutters around her. There are places where the weave is tight, and others where it frays. Lines move out into the distance, and Carolyn can see where it intersects with the Weaver home. _Her_ home. She touches one of those lines and Stiles feels the world shake around them both.

With careful touch, Carolyn begins to cut the strands that bind the Hales to the Weavers. She begins with the ones between herself and Peter, unwinding herself from their lives. With each cut the house settles more firmly into Beacon Hills.

“Stiles!”

Everything shakes, and Stiles comes out of the vision flailing, lying on the soot-stained floor, his head and shoulders in Derek’s lap. “Thanks, dude.” He pulls away as Derek goes to shake him again. He needs to get the cobwebs out of his mind. “Did I say anything?”

Derek shakes his head, expression serious. “No, but Scott just came to the door. Molly took off.”

“What?” Stiles heads for the door, but Derek grabs his shoulder, turns him around, gripping firmly so that Stiles can’t move at all.

“No,” Derek growls. “Isaac and Boyd have gone after her, and Scott and I are going now. Lydia’s car just pulled up and she’ll stay with you. We’ll bring your pup back.”

Stiles opens his mouth and closes it again at the glare. There’s nothing he can do here. He’s breakable and human; she’s a small wolf in child’s clothing. Derek’s right; he can’t help. “Fuck. Fine. Go.” After a moment he realizes Derek hasn’t moved. “What? Did I drool all over you or something?”

“I remembered something.” The words come slowly, Derek’s mouth pulled in tight. “I met your mother. When I was just a kid. She was with Peter.” He hesitates, adding, “She had a wolf on her face. I remember thinking she ought to be one of us.”

“Yeah.” There’s nothing else Stiles can say, since before this moment he hadn’t known anything about it. This memory is as new to him as it is to Derek. “She was pregnant with me.”

“I know.” Derek shakes his head. “We’ll get Molly.”

He leaves as Lydia comes in. Stiles ignores her, sinking to the floor and reaching for the weave.

Just as he thought… it’s stronger now, with threads rebuilding out of their frayed ruins. He puts his head in his hands, fingers threading through his hair, clinging to the strands that spider out from his body. He sits at the center of a weave that is strengthening. He is unmaking everything his mother did, and he doesn’t know if it’s the right decision.

The worst of it is, he still can’t do anything to save his own daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter! And yes, we are celebrating. I clicked over 10k hits to this story sometime yesterday, and it's a milestone as far as I'm concerned so here, have some confetti and a new chapter. Woohoo!!
> 
> Welcome back to the past for this one, just for a little bit. There are definitely some missing links between Stiles's last vision and this one that still have to be filled in (sadly, the Weave doesn't come with a channel tuner to get the episodes in order... Stiles SO wishes it does).
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting! The next chapter will be up on Sunday, May 5th. How did it get to be May already? Do you realize that it's already been two months of posting? Wow. And we've still got a ways to go. I hope you are all continuing to enjoy the ride. Thanks!


	16. Chapter 16

He sees the change the in the weave before he feels the press of Lydia’s shoulder against his own. She sits cross-legged on the floor, her skirt neatly arranged to keep herself decent, and she leans heavily into Stiles. He has to smile; she has obviously learned to live pack dynamics. He leans back slightly to let her know that he’s come back from where he was mentally.

“She’ll be okay.” Lydia covers his hand with hers.

“Platitudes, Lydia?” Stiles rolls his eyes. “I expect better from you.”

“Truth,” she says firmly. “I know you are a complete papa bear, and I’d expect no less from you, but you are also, as you keep reminding everyone, human. You need to let the wolves take care of the wolves, and you need to trust Derek.”

Stiles tries not to let the sour expression twist his face. He looks away from Lydia, hiding it, but she elbows him anyway.

“I meant what I said, Stiles. He’s our alpha.”

“When did this become _our_ pack?” He doesn’t mean himself, he means this whole dynamic where Lydia and Danny don’t just _know_ about it, they are fully a _part_ of it. They were always there, on the periphery, but it was never like this.

The look she gives him is curious, then concerned. “You had no idea, did you?” she says. “We’ve been part of the pack all along. Were you that wrapped up in your own world after…”

Her voice trails off and Stiles sighs. He reaches for his phone, just to have something in his hands to fiddle with. Anything would do. “Just say it, Lydia. After my dad died. And yeah, I was that wrapped up. My whole life changed in those few months, and then I left. I guess I missed some things.” Between his dad, and finding out the truth about mom, not to mention making some spectacularly bad decisions… it was hard to see outside his own world at the time.

“You _did_ leave.” 

“This isn’t the time.” His thumb swipes the screen of his phone. Temple Run. It’s mindless and he can do it without really thinking about it. “So you guys moved in.”

“Danny first. He was dating Isaac then. I moved in later, towards the end of freshman year. Karen and my roommate were driving me completely insane, and I needed somewhere quiet to study.” Lydia smiles fondly. “And yes, a house full of teenage male wolves was quieter than my dorm room.”

When his phone rings, at first Stiles thinks it’s a sound effect in his game. No one has this number other than the people around him. In fact, so far he’s only given it to Lydia, and after that to Scott. Whoever is calling now is neither of those numbers.

Lydia elbows him, and he touches the bright _answer_ button and raises it to his ear. “Hello?”

“Weaver.”

The depth of the voice resonates in Stiles’s memory. He lowers the phone and quickly touches the speaker button. “It’s Stilinski,” he corrects, taking a steadying breath. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of being introduced.”

Words impact the weave; Stiles feels it around him, strings plucked like a harp, vibrating with each thing said. Lydia’s hand sneaks into his and Stiles is grateful for the steadying anchor of her touch.

“We’ve met.” The alpha laughs. “You have an impressive amount of raw talent, Weaver. I could help you work with that. Learn how to harness it.”

“You’re a wolf.” Stiles has no trouble keeping his voice flat. The idea of this alpha knowing what he is doesn’t intrigue him. It _scares_ him. “You don’t know the weave and you can’t impact it. Weavers and wolves don’t mix.”

“Not generally, no.” There is a long silence. “Until now. Until our pup.”

“Molly is _mine._ ” His fingers tighten around Lydia’s, gripping hard. “You have no right to her. She already has a pack. _We_ already have a pack.”

“You left that pack years ago, Weaver. If I recall correctly, you said you would never look back, and that they would never expect you to come back.”

Stiles remembers those words, remembers saying them to himself while he worked with the weave and tried to take himself out of Beacon Hills. He couldn’t remove himself completely, but he made himself alien to it.

They’ve been watching him since then. They’ve known about him all this time. His breath stutters, and his eyes close.

“Obviously that’s changed,” he says carefully. “I’m here, and this is still my pack. _Our_ pack.”

“We shall see. Your pup knows where she belongs and she will find us. She is a Maynard.”

There it is. A name. Stiles looks at Lydia and she is holding back a silent smirk. She is barely breathing, not moving, and hopefully not heard.

“She’s a Stilinski,” Stiles tells the alpha. “And if she’s anything else, she’s a _Hale_. You aren’t just chasing a Weaver any more. You’ve got all of us to deal with.”

“Hale.” The alpha draws the name out, the sound of his voice chilling Stiles as he rolls over the name again. “Hale… your mother was _quite_ fond of them. You should thank them. After all, if it weren’t for the Hales, I might never have come for you, Weaver. And when they are all gone? You’ll be mine.”

The phone clicks, and Stiles still can’t breathe, not until he is sure the call is ended and he and Lydia are alone again.

Except they might not be alone. That alpha knows exactly where they are. He knows where _they_ are and he knows where Molly is and he has known everything all along. He has followed Stiles since before Stiles even knew what he was. He is patient. And for some reason, he has chosen now.

He has to warn them. He has to tell them to protect Molly.

He is about to press the button when Lydia tugs the phone from his fingers. “You can’t. Not when they’re wolfed out and playing tag with your daughter,” she says quietly.

“I can’t just wait.”

“Yes.” She covers his hands with hers. “You can. And I will distract you.”

His laugh is a shadow of his usual self. “Oh? How’s that? Because I can think of some very distracting options.” Stiles says the words but he doesn’t feel them. Even when Lydia leans her head against his shoulder, even with the scent of her shampoo in his nose, he doesn’t _feel_ anything except fear for his daughter.

“Tell me about Cass.”

That. _That_ he feels. A sharp twist in his gut, with the alphas voice echoing over it. He doesn’t remember the words, but he remembers that voice when they were attacked. “It was the alpha that bit me, and that bit Molly,” he says quietly. “He let one of the others rip Cass apart. He was trying to give me and Molly a chance to turn. He just wanted to destroy her.”

“That’s not _distracting_ ,” Lydia chides gently. “Tell me about _Cass_. Not about how she died. Molly says her mommy was brilliant. And she showed me the picture from her bag.”

“There are more pictures. Some are hidden. Some are…” Stiles frowns. “I’m sure I’ll remember eventually. I think I’ve left pieces of us all over the place in the last months, ever since we went on the run in the first place. But Cass wasn’t just smart. Molly’s right, she was completely brilliant. A genius.”

“And a redhead.”

“Are you fishing for compliments?” Stiles twists to look at Lydia. “So maybe I have a thing for redheads.”

“Incredibly intelligent, strong-willed redheaded _women_ ,” Lydia says. 

Stiles thinks she might be about to say something else, but he hears the howls and is on his feet. 

Feet thunder on the stairs outside, and Scott comes through the door first. “Derek’s got Molly. I ran ahead.”

Relief buckles Stiles’s legs. Scott and Lydia bracket him, helping him out the door and to a seat on the old steps. He doesn’t move when he sees Derek in the distance, not trusting his own legs to keep him up. Instead he carefully turns off his phone, tucking it away deep in a pocket, and he waits for Derek to approach.

He carries her, and Molly is wrapped around him, her face buried in his shoulder, hair a ragged, tangled cloud around her head. Her clothes are scuffed with dirt and stained, but Stiles doesn’t care. He pushes to his feet and holds out his hands, and as soon as Derek is close enough, Molly reaches for him. He pulls her to him in a tangle of limbs as Derek lets her go, and Stiles doesn’t care about the dirt that scuffs off of her and onto his skin and clothes.

All he cares about is that Molly is safe, and that he is ringed by pack. Breath shudders; he can’t let go, not now. He feels her snuffle against his shoulder, inhaling roughly, and he does the same even though he’s not a wolf, and it doesn’t mean the same thing at all. He rubs her back until she calms and settles against him.

“What do you mean the alpha called?”

Derek’s voice breaks through the silence around him. Molly flinches at the sound, and Stiles turns her away from him, glaring over his shoulder. Lydia shrugs, not at all apologetic for having told Derek. He can’t get out of explaining this one.

“The other pack is Maynard,” Stiles says quietly. “I have a name, and we can give it to Allison. It’s not one I’m familiar with, but that’s not much of a surprise. No matter how much research I did into classic roots, the names weren’t there. They’ve also been watching us longer than I thought. And they’re still watching. They knew exactly where we were, and they probably did something to call Molly. They think she’s going to just go to them.”

“M’not going anywhere.” Molly’s voice is muffled and tired against his shoulder. “I smelled something funny and I got scared. I’m sorry I ran, Daddy. Uncle Derek growled at me.”

“This is one time I’m going to side with Derek on the growling, baby,” Stiles tells her, kissing her cheek. “He’s trying to protect you, and he’s your alpha. You need to listen to him, and you need to stay with us, all the time. Especially tomorrow.”

Molly nods solemnly. “Can we go home now?”

Stiles isn’t sure he got everything he needed from the Hale house, but he got something. Between the weave and the phone call, he has information he didn’t have earlier, and he needs to put that together with what Allison and Danny have been looking into. “Yeah, I think you need a bit of a nap.”

“Mm-hm,” she agrees sleepily.

Molly lets herself be shifted to Lydia in order to get tucked into her car seat. The others separate to spread out among the available cars while Derek falls in step next to Stiles. “Anything else I should know?”

“Yeah.” Stiles glances at him. “The alpha tried to insist that Molly’s a Maynard now. I informed him that she’s a Stilinski first, and a member of the Hale pack second. That we’re _all_ Hales.” He shrugs one shoulder. “You offered. You’re stuck with us now.”

“You didn’t say anything but the truth.” Derek yanks open the door of the Kizashi, holding it for Stiles to get in. “We’ll make sure you stay safe. Let’s get home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just finished writing chapter 21 last night, and this morning it feels really odd that you won't be reading it for a bit yet. This is the first time that I've felt the disconnect between what I'm writing and what I'm posting! On the other hand, it feels good that I can miss a week (or month) of writing and still have material to post for you guys without worrying. This is good because it's summer, and summer is crazy-making (lots of camping, plus work things, plus about six deadlines). On the OTHER hand, I'm really looking forward to writing chapter 22 (it will be my reward after I finish another deadline fic) and sharing it with y'all.
> 
> Anyway, thank you all for being here and for your comments. You guys are really REALLY awesome. Things are starting to shift and change within the story, which I think is a good thing for our pack. The next update will be on Sunday, April 12th. See you then!


	17. Chapter 17

When they get back to the house, Molly whimpers as soon as Stiles gets out of the car. She refuses to get out of the car seat for anyone else, clinging to him as he lifts her up. The wolves flank them as they walk into the house, Boyd remaining outside when the door closes, nose lifted as he scents the air.

“They aren’t here, not now, but they’ve been here,” Isaac says. “I don’t like that they’re sniffing around our house.”

“Stiles is pack.” Derek’s tone is quiet and in control. “We’ll protect him, and we’ll protect ourselves. Nothing’s going to break us.”

Isaac shakes his head. “They were here while Danny and Allison were here _alone_. We can’t do that again. We’re too small to spread this thin.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he takes the stairs two at a time to check on the humans. Scott pauses long enough to throw an apologetic look before he hurries after him.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Shut up, Stiles.” Derek cuffs him gently at the back of his head, not hard enough to hurt him or to disturb Molly. “Go get your cub settled and make sure she’s okay. I can smell your anxiety.”

Which is frustrating, since Stiles thought he hid it well. He’d had four years of learning how _not_ to fidget in front of his daughter when he didn’t know an answer, or when he felt inadequate as a father. He’d trained himself to stand carefully still and be as calm on the outside as he could, even if he felt like screaming inside. But if Derek could scent it, that means Molly can too, and Stiles’s years of pretending to be in control are over.

He smiles ruefully. “Is it going to be like this every full moon?” Because he can’t imagine this level of anxiety, this lack of ability to be there for his own child. Maybe it would have been simpler to accept the bite, to let himself turn as well. Then they could have been wolves together.

Derek’s hand on his shoulder is close to the bite, fingertips brushing where it is hidden beneath his shirt. “She’ll learn. You’ll learn. We all did when I was small, and we had a large pack. Don’t worry, Stiles, we’ll get her through, and we won’t give her up to the Maynards.”

“Do you know anything about them?”

Derek shakes his head. “I’ll call Deaton and I’m sure Scott and Isaac have already given Allison the name. We’ll find out what we can. You focus on our cub.”

Molly snuffles and her fingers cling to Stiles; he rocks slightly to soothe her, a familiar motion. “C’mon, baby, let’s get you settled then.”

In the privacy of their room, Molly finally lets go of Stiles long enough to pad over to her duffle bag and with help, change quietly into fresh, clean clothes. She climbs onto the bed and waits until Stiles lies down next to her and tucks her in. “I didn’t like the funny smell,” she says quietly, curling into the safe haven that the curve of Stiles’s body creates. “I liked it when we got there. The things that smelled like you and Uncle Derek and everyone else. But I don’t like the burning smell, and then I smelled the mean wolves. It smelled like when—”

Stiles doesn’t let her finish that sentence, hushing her with a kiss to her cheek and fingers stroking soothingly through her hair. He can fill it in on his own. _It smelled like when Mommy died_. When they ripped Cass apart, all those wolves. He tries not to shake, but he feels her shiver in reaction to his own anxiety. “You know our pack is going to protect you, right, Molly? They all want to take care of you.”

“Are we staying here?” She sounds uncertain.

“Do you want to?” Stiles has already made his choice, as much as it is a choice any more. But Molly has a say in it too, and if she’s afraid, he can’t trap her here. It would only make it worse.

She nods slowly. “I like this house. Maybe we should just stay in it for a while.”

“We can do that.” Definitely for the next day or so, as the full moon slides over the pack. Stiles has no idea what to expect any more when that happens. He last saw the pack five years ago, and he’s sure they’ve all gained more control in that time. After all, two humans—sometimes _three_ humans—live in this house with them. And there isn’t a dungeon in the basement; it’s a finished space for watching movies and playing around. He doesn’t see any sign of the chains he remembers, or other things to control young wolves. Which is good, right? He doesn’t want to have to use chains to control his daughter.

But at the same time, he’s afraid of what will happen, how the full moon will affect her. She’s too young for this.

Some wolves are wolves their whole lives, though. Some are born wolves. Like Derek.

Stiles tries to breathe easily and trust that Derek will know what to do.

“Daddy?” Molly doesn’t sound sleepy, although her voice is muffled from being pressed against his shirt. “I had a funny dream.”

“Right now?” He rubs small circles on her back, trying to relax her so she will nap and rest.

She shakes her head, hair a small tangle of strawberry blond. “Uh-uh. Before. Maybe a few times.”

Weaver dreams.

Fuck.

“What about, baby?” Stiles keeps his voice even, begs his heartbeat to stay steady. He never knew about his heritage this young, at least he doesn’t think he did. Anything… anything could be suspect. Anything could be made to be forgotten, he knows that now, and he wonders what his mother might have done to protect him. On the other hand, he wasn’t bitten by a werewolf either, and who knows how that’s interacting with the Weaver talents.

And maybe she’s just having funny dreams. It’s possible. Right?

“I dreamed about the house, Daddy. The burnt one, only I couldn’t smell it in my dream. Why couldn’t I smell it?”

Because she wasn’t a wolf in the dream, she was just a Weaver. Stiles wrestles the words together, figuring out how to lie to his daughter because the truth would be too confusing. “It’s a dream. Do you usually smell things in dreams?”

“I didn’t used to, but sometimes I do. I smelled cotton candy in my dream last night.” Molly wriggles, burrowing into the sheets, small body hot against Stiles. “I thought maybe I should smell the people. The house wasn’t all burnt up. And there were really old people in my dream. Older than _you_.”

Stiles has to smile at that perspective of _old_ from a four year old. He’s pretty sure the wolves can hear them, if they try, and he wonders if any are listening when he asks, “Were they older than Uncle Derek?”

“Uh-huh. They were wrinkly old, like Meredith’s grandpa.” The little girls makes a noise. “But they weren’t _nice_ like her grandpa. One of them was all growly, and one was mean, and one was even meaner. They yell at each other in my dream.”

“Do you hear what they say?” Stiles gets the feeling this dream is real, and even more that it is important. But she shakes her head and he sighs inwardly. It’s something else he’ll need to look into, next time he can get back to Hale house. Three guys, and he has no idea when it’s from, just that they are growly and grumpy. It’s not a lot to go on, but he doubts he’ll get anything better from Molly. 

“Baby, you ought to try to get some sleep. Just a little nap, because this morning was so exciting.” He kisses the top of her head, fingers starting the small circles on her back again. It was always guaranteed to get her to sleep when she was little, but now he’s not so sure.

“I’m not tired, Daddy.” Her voice wobbles, small hand clinging to his shirt.

“Scared?”

She nods wordlessly, and Stiles has no idea what to do about this anymore. There isn’t any way to make it perfect other than getting rid of the Maynard pack. He has a feeling that isn’t going to be easy, and he doesn’t want them to be trapped in this house until that’s done.

A soft tap at the door, and it creaks open. Allison smiles slightly as she looks in. “I brought you something,” she whispers.

“I can hear you,” Molly says.

“Stay here. I’m going to go talk to Auntie Allison in the hall for a moment.” Stiles doesn’t bother telling her not to listen; Molly’s going to listen or she won’t, and he’s pretty sure that’s an argument he’ll never win anymore. He slips out of the bed and follows Allison into the hallway, closing the door behind himself.

“Does that help?” Allison asks.

“Not really. Her hearing’s getting better everyday.” Stiles shrugs, lips pursed together in a rueful expression. “I am never going to be able to whisper about childhood things again. This will destroy Christmas.”

“And Easter.” Allison reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small vial. “Deaton came by after Derek called him.” When Stiles turns to head down the hallway, she catches his hand. “You don’t need to go barge in; Derek will talk to him. We need you upstairs once Molly’s settled, if you want to talk about what we’ve learned. Plus, you said something about wards, right? Can we help with those?”

Stiles looks at the vial. “What’s that?”

“Child-sized dosage of some sleep medication that Deaton developed for werewolves.” Allison presses it into his hand. “There’s a dropper in there, and Deaton says one drop on her tongue will do it. He tried to make it sweet for her, but she probably won’t like it much. It’s potent, so no more than a drop at a time, okay?”

Stiles closes his hand around the vial. “Got it. And it’s safe?” The idea of putting something that wasn’t over the counter and FDA tested in his child’s mouth doesn’t thrill him, but Deaton has a decent track record. Not to mention that Stiles has no idea whether werewolves can even take human medications. He catches his lower lip in his teeth, worrying at it.

“We’ve given it full strength to Derek,” Allison admits with a soft laugh. “And we had to use it once for Isaac.” Her expression clouds there, and Stiles can see there’s a story that’s not being told. “Whatever that concoction is, it works, and I trust Deaton to be able to calculate dosage based on weight.”

“You have a point.” It doesn’t make Stiles feel any better, but Molly needs to rest and relax. “I’m going to lie down with her for a little while, and if she can’t fall asleep on her own, or she starts getting antsy, I’ll give her one drop.” A very very small drop. An infinitesimal drop. Just enough to help her relax. And then he will hide the vial where it doesn’t ever have to come out again. Stiles does _not_ want to get in the habit of drugging his daughter to sleep.

“Come upstairs when you can.” Allison leans in to hug him, holding on tight for a long moment before kissing his cheek. “And if you need anything, call out. You know someone will hear you.”

She leaves Stiles alone in the hallway, wrestling with his conscience and letting it go to war with the instincts to protect his child. In the end, he does exactly what he says and goes in to rest with Molly. After an hour of her fidgeting and growing more agitated, he gives in and has her taste just one drop.

He watches her sleep for another twenty minutes after that, reluctant to walk away and leave her under the influence of an unknown drug.

In the end, he reminds himself that these people are his pack, and Deaton is someone that his pack trusts. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt him or Molly, and he has to trust them too.

It isn’t easy to do, but he kisses Molly’s cheek and tucks the blankets in around her. She has Apple tucked in one arm, her face pressed against the threadbare fur of the old one-eyed bear. She is peaceful, at least for the moment, and Stiles can go see what the others have found. For the first time since he started to run, he has people to help him protect what he loves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to everyone from where I am camping with internets!! I'm off to go to a pancake breakfast (that I can't eat, but my family can) shortly, but I wanted to make sure to post this first. I'm so glad you're all here today! It's the beginning of summer, and time for me to write while hiding in the camper on the weekends (not joking, and it's actually quite lovely). Thank you for all of your wonderful comments!
> 
> Almost forgot! Next chapter will post on Sunday, May 19th (in the midst of a seriously crazy weekend, so if it's late in the day, please don't be angry).


	18. Chapter 18

“There’s a part of me that thinks maybe I should just give her a drop of that stuff again tomorrow. So she sleeps through the whole thing.” Okay, so maybe he doesn’t want to drug his daughter, but still… she’s so _peaceful_ , and who knows how bad the moon will be.

“Really.” It isn’t a question from Lydia, her tone flat as she glances at Stiles. “You’re pacing. I think you’ll be more effective if you actually try sitting down and opening your laptop. And I know you don’t mean that.”

“She needs to experience the full moon tomorrow.” Allison pats the space between her and Lydia on the bed. Stiles looks between them and where Danny sits at a desk, fully absorbed in doing _something_ on a laptop.

Stiles pauses and just _looks_ at him. “Do you need coffee?” He has no idea why he asks, but he feels like he should get something. Coffee should be involved here. Right?

“Hm?” Danny glances up. “What? No. _Sit_ , Stiles. Get your laptop open. We’ve got things to go over and you being antsy isn’t helping anyone, unless you tell me you’re doing whatever your thing is by pacing around the room. And that doesn’t seem like a great idea since it seems like sometimes your thing involves passing out.”

“I’m not going to pass out.” Stiles falls into the space between the two girls. Lydia is cross-legged, her knee pressing against his thigh, and Allison curls her feet under one hip, leaning towards Stiles and against his shoulder. He can’t decide if this is comforting or if they are trapping him here, and he suspects that in his current state, it might be meant to be a little of both. He busies himself getting his laptop out and open, waiting for it to wake up. “Right. I’m not going to pass out,” he repeats is the laptop comes to life. “Particularly if we find a way that you three can help me.”

“We’re not whatever you are,” Lydia points out. “How do you propose we work together?”

“What I am is only a part of the equation, I think.” Stiles digs through his files until he finds the one he was looking for, on the roots of magic. “Different societies focused on different aspects of magic. What I do is see the weave, the threads that bind all of us. I can see threads around this house, ones that are entangled with Beacon Hills, and some of them are linked to the old Hale house. When my mom was warding this house, something happened there… I think they affected each other. Which isn’t the point right now; the point is that what I see is just one way of gathering energy. It’s the thing that we need to affect in the end, but there are ways to do it better than the gut instinct thread-pulling that I’ve been doing. Since I’m obviously not doing it right.”

It takes a lot to admit that, particularly to these three people who are his human allies in the pack. “I’ve got the power,” he admits, “but I’m screwing it up without an instruction manual. So I need help. Between us we have a lot of different information. Technical. Mathematical—I remember that some of the things Cass talked about when she was getting deep into theoretical formulae reminded me a lot of the patterns I deal with. Then there’s history and sociology, and just about anything we can get. No one writes this down.”

“Except you.” Danny taps the thumb drive sticking out of the side of his computer. “Mind telling me why you have a memory stick that has files on it with my encryption keys? I didn’t think it would actually work when I tried it, but now I’m pretty sure I encrypted those originally. Or I gave you the information to do it.”

“I don’t know.” Stiles raises his hands. “Don’t look at me like that, guys. If I knew for sure, I’d tell you. But best guess is, I cut a cord somewhere and I don’t remember. _You_ don’t remember. I just… I had that stick at the bottom of my bag and it seemed like it was waiting to come here.”

“Can you put the thread back?” Lydia asks as if it is the most obvious answer, and Stiles supposes it is. 

He winces slightly. “It’s not that simple. At least… some of the threads seem to be rebuilding around me. Even the ones I’m not trying to fix. But if I cut something the _right_ way, it ought to be gone for good.”

His fingers rest on the keyboard as he closes his eyes. He opens them again to see the threads—Allison bound into the weave of the house as tightly as if she were there all the time. His own threads are growing stronger and stronger, including one thick and bright strand that he refuses to look at too closely. “Some threads don’t cut easily,” he says quietly. “Mom said that some will fray, but might have to be regrown. I didn’t get it when she told me. I’m not sure I really get it now. Like I said, there’s no instruction book for any of this.”

Lydia settles a pad of paper on her knees, a pencil between her finger tips as she considers the blank page. A moment later she is scratching lines and equations, drawing something that makes sense only to her. She flicks her fingers at Stiles. “Talk. Research. It will take me some time before this will be ready to explain to you.”

Stiles interprets that as her polite way of saying that she’ll need to dumb it down for the rest of them. He’s okay with that; math may not be his subject, but he can see how it fits together with everything else. Careful calculations, patterns, thread lengths that mean something. He’ll trust Lydia to divine it, and help him put it back together in the weave.

“I’ve been picking up the files Allison has access to.” Danny nods at the laptop. “Without letting anyone know that it’s her getting them. I don’t think we need the rest of the Argents knowing our business right now.”

“Definitely not. I get the feeling a small magical werewolf person might trip their problem sensors.” Stiles glances at Allison. “I’m so glad you’re on our side.”

She nudges him with her shoulder. “Wouldn’t be anywhere else. So Lydia said that the pack is Maynard, right?” When Stiles nods, she continues. “They’re a pack with roots deep in Germany. Strong traditions, even though they’ve been in this country a long time. Everyone keeps the name. Whether they’re bitten into the pack, married in, female or male, they’re all Maynards. Strong sense of family.”

“Are you going to keep Argent when you get married?” Stiles wishes he could bite his tongue as soon as the question is out, but Allison only laughs.

“I’m not going to bother with marriage,” she says easily. “It’s less complicated this way. And yes, I want to keep my name. It’s a part of who I am.”

“My mom didn’t keep Weaver.” And given the significance Stiles has seen placed on pack and family names, he wonders if there is a reason. If she meant to write herself out in that small and subtle way when she married his dad.

“Back to the Maynards.” Lydia’s pen never stops moving, her attention never wavering from her page, but her other hand pokes at Stiles. “Stay focused,” she chastises.

“Do we know anything in particular about them that can help us?” Stiles asks. “Like a tendency towards a weak heart. Or maybe a curse that makes them all die at the age of twenty-one and we just need to wait it out.”

“Nothing so lucky.” Danny has a file up on his computer and he scrolls through it, reading rapidly. “There aren’t any specifics about the current pack that’s come here, but they do say that they tend to gain their strength through having a significant amount of betas, and through interbreeding with alphas from other packs. They also have a traditional alliance with the Corann.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“Who.” Danny turns the laptop to face Stiles, but the pictures are indistinct. “A whole bunch of who, I think.”

“Another family?” Stiles leans forward, trying to see something in those faces. He doesn’t recognize the name, but that doesn’t surprise him. He feels like there should be something important about the name, but maybe he just doesn’t know the right language. They can’t all be as obvious as Weaver and Argent, right?

“I’ll add them to the list of things to look into.” Danny bends over the laptop, back to work.

“Do this.” Lydia places the paper in Stiles’s lap and he tries to make sense of the pattern he sees there. 

“You don’t even know what the wards look like,” he protests.

“No, but I know what does make a strong network of intertwined lines with a mathematically stable root, and that is it.” She jabs the paper with one red nail. “Therefore, that is what you need to do.”

“I’ve seen something like that pattern before, Stiles,” Allison says slowly. “I can probably find it again, if you want. On a coat of arms.”

“You’ve seen this squiggle on a coat of arms?”

“It’s not a squiggle, it’s a graph.” Lydia tilts her head. “Do you want to be safe?”

“My point is that Lydia has just independently drawn something that’s also been used in history and she may well have a point.” Allison leans into him. “It’s worth a try.”

Stiles knows when he’s outnumbered. He sinks into the weave, throwing open his senses and trying to tune out the personal threads that wrap around them all. It isn’t easy trying to listen to what Lydia explains while he winds threads together, in an attempt to duplicate her pattern.

He has a feeling it’s going to take a while. Thankfully they have the time, and there are people to watch Molly when she wakes from her nap. Stiles doesn’t want to go anywhere until he knows the house is safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I really have to say about this chapter is TEAM HUMAN. Also, I think y'all are going to like the upcoming chapters. Er. Mostly, anyway. Next chapter will post on Sunday, May 26th.
> 
> My writing life has been crazy lately. I'm cranking through those deadlines, and I'm not picking up any more fests right now (except for my monthly commitment to an HP comm). MatingGames ends soon, and I will hopefully turn in fics for Beat the Heat and Heat Wave within the next couple of weeks. Why is this good? That two month lead I had on chapters has dwindled down to only one month, which means I need focus time for this story! Or a vacation to write. Wouldn't that be nice? I swear, I daydream about taking a week off and just WRITING (okay, maybe cleaning the house and cooking, too, while my brain works out plots) for that week.
> 
> Thank you so much for being here and for commenting and (hopefully) for telling your friends about this story. Things are going to be heating up, and I hope you continue to enjoy it. Thank you!!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's Saturday. I can't guarantee internet tomorrow morning, so I'm posting early.

By the time darkness falls, Stiles is exhausted. He picks at dinner while everyone eats, thanking Isaac for cooking, then immediately wishing it was anything but spaghetti when Molly ends up wearing a large amount of the sauce. Bathing her and getting her ready for bed lets him slip away from where Isaac and Scott are checking in on Allison, and Danny and Lydia have fallen deep in conversation with Derek. Boyd is dispatched to do a run around the house and the neighborhood, which does little to lower the amount of tension in the house.

Stiles can feel it in the weave around him, even without opening himself up to it. He spent so much time within it that afternoon that he can’t seem to completely escape from it yet. Even sitting on the edge of Molly’s bath, telling stories while she splashes and plays, it drags at him, wanting to pull him back in.

Finally Molly is asleep, sliding into exhausted slumber. Stiles wonders if the drops from Deaton have continued to affect her even though she seemed alert enough during dinner after her nap. At least she’s calm, no longer agitated by the near fullness of the moon.

“Stiles.”

“Dude!” Stiles glances behind him to see Derek standing in the doorway. “I’m going to put a bell on you. Don’t do the sneaking up thing when I’m with Molly. And don’t do the creepy looming thing, either. It’s… creepy.” He should be able to come up with something better than that, but his mind feels fogged from the magic. He can see the strands tangling between them, one thick and burning bright. His fingers itch to cut it before it becomes impossible, but he clenches his hand tightly. He promised to try this, and he needs to for Molly. He needs to find a new—safe—way through hell.

Derek nods at the hallway, and Stiles returns the nod. He leans in to brush a kiss against Molly’s forehead before he slips out and pulls the door closed behind him. “You summoned, oh Alpha?”

“We need to talk.”

It’s not the words but the flat voice that twists inside of Stiles’s chest. “Right,” he says. “Do you mean talk as in everything we’ve found out about the Maynards today? Or talk about the wards—which are brilliant—that we’ve just set up around this house? Or how about you telling me what to expect tomorrow, since today was already pretty bad on the moon calling to my daughter front. What do you _do_ with four year old wolves, anyway? Puppy cages? I’d really rather not stick my kid in a kennel, Derek.”

“ _Talk_.” It’s like the word itself is supposed to be significant, as Derek grips Stiles’s shoulder and roughly pulls him down the hall. “We’re going out. You don’t want to talk here, then fine, we won’t.”

“Dude, I don’t even know what you want to talk about which makes me not want to talk _anywhere_.” Stiles tries to wrench himself free from Derek and only ends up stumbling a few feet forward before Derek catches him again.

The living room is suspiciously empty, the rest of the pack having fled to elsewhere in the house. Stiles doesn’t have superwolf hearing, but he’s sure Derek knows exactly where every single one of his wolves and humans are. “Thanks for abandoning me, dude,” Stiles mutters under his breath, hoping Scott is listening in. “Fuck this, Derek. If you really want me to talk, stop shoving me around.”

Surprisingly, Derek lets go, hands falling to his side. “Everyone’s staying here tonight,” he says quietly. “Including Boyd. He’s sleeping on the pullout downstairs.”

“There’s a pullout couch downstairs?” Stiles blinks. “Why didn’t you put us there? Why are we taking Lydia’s room?”

“Ask Lydia.” From the roll of his eyes, it is clear that that was entirely out of Derek’s hands. “I’m not the one who invited you to stay.”

“Originally.”

Silence for a moment as Derek meets Stiles’s gaze. “Yes,” Derek finally says. “We’ll sort out better sleeping arrangements eventually. The attic’s big enough that we could finish it, make it into a living space.”

Stiles wants to protest that they aren’t going to be in the house _that_ long. Because they’ll get through the full moon, and figure out what to do about the Maynard pack, and then maybe Stiles will stay in Beacon Hills but he’ll get an apartment. Still be part of the pack, but have more space.

He can’t say any of that with the look Derek’s giving him. The sheer _expectation_ that they aren’t going anywhere.

“Cubs need to grow up with pack around them.”

“Boyd’s got his own place,” Stiles mutters.

“Boyd’s not a cub.” Derek pulls open the front door and points, and after a slight hesitation, Stiles walks out.

He can feel the way the weave is tight here on the threshold, then after that it’s a thick barrier all the way around the house, about six feet wide. Enough that someone can step outside and still be within the protections of the house.

“I have to admit, Lydia’s squiggle is pretty impressive.” Once he got started weaving it, it made complete sense. He’d had to bring the spinning wheel out to get more thread, so he’d have enough to blanket the house. Stiles is sure that’s why he’s so muzzy-headed now, from the energy he put into the process. A good night’s sleep will be enough to fix that, though, he thinks.

“Get in the car.” Derek waits by the Camaro, and Stiles stops in the middle of the thickest part of the weave to look at him.

Seen from this angle, Derek glows. The squiggle is a part of him, weaving him tightly into the magic of this place. The entire frame seems to hinge on Derek, but not in a way that makes it want to collapse. It makes the weave stronger, and that’s something Stiles has to set aside to think about later. It wasn’t on his mind while building it, but he has a feeling it should have been.

After all, the Stilinski house and Hale house conflicted in the past. Hales made bumps in Weaver magic. But Derek doesn’t, not any more of a ripple than Scott or Isaac or Stiles himself.

He really needs to sit down and work out _why_ , when he can think straight.

“Dude, I’m exhausted.” Stiles lets his legs fold and sits down on the grass, sighing slightly when his butt hits ground. “And you, you’re not using your words. Which is a typical problem, I know. I talk too much, you don’t talk at all. Neither of us actually _says_ anything.” He raises one finger and lets it circle in the air. “It’s cyclical. And dizzying, and I’m sure we drive people nuts all the time. Or well, we used to. And probably do again now that I’m back here. But it’s not actually _getting_ us anywhere. So no, I’m not getting in the Camaro until you tell me what this is all about.”

When Derek approaches, Stiles half expects the alpha to pick him up bodily and shove him in the car. Stiles isn’t sure he could actually fight back right now. But instead, Derek sinks to sit next to Stiles in the middle of the front lawn. “You’re part of the pack now,” he says, voice low. “We need to talk about that.”

“About what? The fact that I’m living here? I can move. We covered that already.” Stiles is pretty sure he knows what Derek wants to talk about, but he _doesn’t_ want to go there. That topic is off-limits. Very far off-limits. “I think we’ve all accepted that this,” he swirls his finger in the air, the gesture encompassing the house, Derek, and Stiles himself, “is um—” Words fail, and he stumbles to a stop. 

Stiles shoves his hands into his hair, filtering through the strands of the weave and looking at how everything spirals out from him. There are more threads every day, more tying him into this place. He sighs. “Derek, I’m too tired for this. I’m really, really too tired for this.”

“Ice cream.”

It’s not a full sentence, but it gets his attention and Stiles twists to look at Derek. The wolf waits patiently, one eyebrow arched, until Stiles asks, “What?”

“You didn’t have enough to eat and you probably need more energy. More sugar.” Derek’s shoulder leans into Stiles, pressing for a moment. “I figured ice cream might help.”

“When did you learn to take care of humans?” Stiles realizes it’s a stupid question as soon as he says it. He knows damn well when this all happened: in the five years while he was gone. But still, this is… a nice gesture. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to fight. But I don’t want to talk, not about—” He waves a hand rather than saying more. “Wards I can talk about. I can barely get my head out of them. Maynards I can talk about. That’s just about all we _did_ talk about other than weaving today. Now that we’ve got a name, Allison and Danny got us data.” More and more as the day went on, and Stiles suspects they’re still at it now.

Derek wedges a hand under Stiles’s elbow and lifts. It’s easier to go with him than it is to fight, and ice cream doesn’t sound like a bad idea. _Just_ the ice cream part. 

“What have you found out?” Derek asks.

Stiles suspects Derek may already know this, since he could’ve listened in on the conversation. But it’s not a bad discussion topic, and he’d like Derek’s feedback. “The Argents had some dealings with them, back in the sixties. Not here in Beacon Hills, somewhere in Massachusetts. Somerville. Part of the pack moved into the city to cover two of their human members that were in college. They’re from Germany originally, but here they’re an east coast pack, centered mostly around New York.”

They walk in slow steps to the Camaro. Stiles feels the weave tug at him, trying to drag him back inside the house, and he wonders if anyone else feels that protective pull the same way he does. If anyone does, he hopes it surrounds Molly and keeps her from wanting to run tomorrow. There’s a moment where he thinks it will hold him in place, then he stumbles and Derek catches him before he trips over his own feet and falls on his face. “Thanks.”

“Do I have to worry about you passing out?” They stop at the car and Derek reaches past Stiles to pull the passenger door open. “I can take you back inside and pour juice down your throat if you need something sugary immediately.”

“What is this fascination you all have with me passing out? I’m fine.” Stiles wedges himself through the thin space between Derek and the open door and slides into the passenger seat. His head leans back and he lets the leather take his weight in full as he sloughs off the remains of the wards from around his body. “It’s just the work we did today. It’s left me tied more to the house.”

“And you still think you’re moving out?” Derek sounds amused as he slips into the driver’s seat and brings the Camaro to life with a roar. “Stiles, stop trying to run away. You’re here. Molly needs her pack, and _you_ need your pack. Give somebody else a chance to help hold you up.”

Stiles manages a glare. “You’re one to talk about that.”

“You’d be surprised.” As soon as Stiles snaps his seatbelt, Derek backs out of the driveway. “Things have changed. I’m in charge, but they’re _all_ a part of the pack. We wouldn’t have gotten through that first year if we weren’t working together.”

“When I moved out?”

Derek’s gaze flicks sideways, but he doesn’t actually _look_ at Stiles. “Yeah. When you left for college, and Allison went east. We had to work together to pull ourselves back from everything that happened, and peace didn’t actually help. Without something to fight, there was a lot more time to look at the cracks around us.”

“I know the feeling.” And in a way, Stiles feels guilty now, because he had Cass for that. And Molly… she was a big upheaval, but with her and Cass in his life, he never had the chance to stop and feel like the world was going to break apart again. It gave him something to fight for without the supernatural fuckery and danger.

Until the Maynards decided to make themselves known.

“So, the Maynards.” Stiles closes his eyes. “They’ve been following me since I left Beacon Hills. They come from New York originally, and there are still some of them back there. It’s a large pack, split off into several smaller groups according to the Argent files, so this is one alpha out of many, and not even the worst of the bunch. But he’s bad enough.”

“And?” This time Derek does risk a look at Stiles when they’re paused at a red light, and Stiles sighs.

“And they have an alliance with a family named Corann. And a Hunter family.” Stiles laughs slightly. “The Hunters, actually. Original, huh?”

“Your mom’s name was Weaver.”

“You have a point. I guess that’s what happens when people get descriptive names in English speaking countries, . Allison actually said that some of her relatives switched to the name Silver when they came here. She has a distant cousin named Sterling. Can you imagine doing that to a kid?” He’s babbling, and it’s for a reason. Stiles may talk a lot, but he doesn’t usually _babble_. But right now Derek’s off-kilter listening to it, and there’s some actual useful information going from Stiles to Derek amidst everything else.

More importantly, Derek’s distracted. Stiles can see that he’s taking it all in, trying to filter out the important parts from the rambling. Stiles is _tired_ and this is the easiest way to deflect and keep them from going back to what Derek tried to talk about. Because Stiles isn’t ready. Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all, and for those in the US, happy Memorial Day weekend. We're camping, and the WiFi is a bit spotty, so I'm posting this from work this morning, a day early, so you don't have to wait all the way until Tuesday! Posting will go back to Sunday next weekend, with the next post being on Sunday, June 2nd. Wow, how did it get to be June already?
> 
> Thank you all so much for being here, and for commenting, and for leaving kudos, and for reading (of course!). We are definitely into a new phase of the storyline, and I hope you enjoy the direction it is taking.


	20. Chapter 20

Stiles has to admit, Derek was right: he needed the sugar. He gets a double-scoop cone with one scoop of dark chocolate and one of black cherry ice cream, then has them dip it in a candy shell and sprinkle it with peanuts before it hardens. By the time Derek is handed his own single scoop cone (vanilla blast), Stiles has already crunched away most of the shell and a large part of the black cherry. Derek raises an eyebrow and Stiles sticks out his tongue.

The sugar has obviously gone straight to his head.

“Your tongue is purple.” Derek touches Stiles’s shoulder, nudging him towards the door. It’s still warm out, and it has always been tradition for people to walk along the street after getting ice cream. Large groups of friends, families, couples. Stiles and Derek will blend in, and for a moment, it might even feel normal.

Stiles stays silent as they thread through the door and into the movement of the crowd along the sidewalk. The ice cream cone absorbs his attention as he twists it, trying to catch the drips of chocolate before they slide down the cone and stain his hands with sticky sweet. A soft sound distracts him and he glances over to see Derek with his eyes momentarily closed, a small smile on his face as he tastes the sweet vanilla.

Stiles can’t watch that or things are going to go from bad to worse, rapidly.

They both seem to want to wind the same direction through town, heading towards a small plaza by the library, near where they parked. When they get close, Stiles moves ahead to hop up onto the high stone wall, sitting comfortably to finish his cone. Derek leans against the waist-high stone wall, near but not too near, and when Stiles closes his eyes in turn he can see the weave settled all around them. He plucks at a thread to see it spark with light, shining brightly between them. Fingers travel the threads lightly, testing them, catching at their strength. They spin off into the town, reaching for others, but there are a significant number tying him to Derek now. Some are ones he broke long ago, some are new. He sighs because no matter what he does, they seem to grow on their own.

“Stiles.”

He opens his eyes, looking down to see Derek’s hand resting open and palm up atop the wall. A small black button nestles against his palm, a bit of thread still attached to it. For a moment Stiles forgets how to breathe.

“I thought you’d want it back,” Derek says, voice low. Stiles tries to read his expression, but Derek is looking off into the distance, not meeting Stiles’s gaze. “For the bear. For Molly.”

“Well, that might take some explaining about why it’s turned up now.” Stiles sticks his thumb in his mouth, twisting it slightly as he licks melted ice cream from it. He rubs at his face with the napkin, then crumples it in his hand. Holding onto it gives him something to do so he doesn’t reach out.

“You knew I had it.”

Stiles laughs without humor. “It wasn’t much of a stretch, considering when it disappeared. Plus, I found it in your jacket pocket.” He’d gone looking once upon a time, because he needed to know for certain. He needed to know how important something so stupid as a teddy bear’s eye was to Derek. “Why the hell did you take it in the first place?”

Derek leans back against the wall, both elbows against it, the eye hidden again in the curled palm of his hand. He tilts his head back, staring at the sky. “I had the stupid idea that I could protect you. That bear meant something to you. But then you didn’t even take the damned thing with you when you left.”

“You’re living in my room.” It’s a severe shift of topic, but it seems like a perfectly logical jump to Stiles. From him giving the house to Scott and Derek, to Derek living in his room where the bear was left sitting neatly on his bed when he walked out.

He’d thought about taking Apple. He’d thought about it for a long, long time. But he was supposed to be cutting ties and going off to college; he couldn’t bring along a threadbare stuffed animal that was embedded in his past.

Derek makes a noise that could be anything; Stiles can’t read it. Instead he opens himself up to look at the weave. He won’t touch it, not now when he can see it vibrating between them, threads thickening all on their own. There is a tangle around Derek’s hand, strands leading back to wrap around Stiles, drawing him closer. He pulls against it, feels the weight of the weave.

Something taps back.

Stiles stops breathing for a moment, casting his mind out, seeking that interruption.

“What is it?” Derek’s head lifts, nose tilted up, scenting the air. “Your heart rate’s up.”

“Listening to my heart that closely, are you?” Stiles tries to make a joke of it, but he can’t, not when he knows _something_ is out there and impacting the tight weave around them. Something not very far away at all.

“It’s loud.” Derek twists, turning to look behind them. His voice drops low as he grips Stiles’s shoulder, tugging until Stiles slides down from his seat on the wall. “We’ve got company.”

That’s when Stiles finds the strands, twisted and thick, overshadowed by a gossamer net that almost seems familiar. “Crap. _Dude_. Seriously? They’re _here_?” But here is better than home. Here is better than them being with Molly.

Besides, Stiles has Derek, and Derek’s worth any three of the other wolves. Right?

Fingers bite into his shoulder. “Take my keys and go back to the Camaro.” The words are curt and sharp as Derek turns, facing the two who approach.

“Not without you.” Stiles twists his hand around, gripping Derek’s tightly. “Come on, dude. Let’s just back away. They’re probably just watching me, which they’ve already been doing for longer than I care to think about. So you, me, and the Camaro… we’ll head home, get back inside the wards, and everything will be fine. Besides, what do you think they’ll do on a busy street like this?”

“We didn’t park on the main road,” Derek reminds him. Because of course they didn’t. The main road was busy with summer traffic that had gotten there before them. Parking was never easy this time of year, so they’d gone up one of the side streets and walked back to the ice cream shop. No different than any other day except _this_ time they were being followed by a rival pack.

“It’s only two,” Stiles says. They’ve turned their back on them now, but he can still feel them; the way they move sings against the weave, leaving little twinges that make his skin itch. Now that he knows about them, he can’t imagine how he ever didn’t notice them before.

“Four,” Derek corrects. “Maybe five. There’s something else I can’t get a handle on. It doesn’t smell like wolf. I don’t think it’s a hunter.”

“It’s probably nothing.” Stiles tries to make light of it, but four wolves? Four wolves, one alpha, and one breakable human. This isn’t good. This really isn’t good.

By the time they get to the side street, Stiles can see who is following them. They are staying to the shadows, so he can’t make out faces or details, but it’s enough to set off sparks of memory in his mind. It is familiar to him, it is all too familiar. His shoulder aches from the bite. “Derek…”

The alpha snarls, shoving Stiles behind him, up the side street and away from the approaching wolves. Eyes are red, teeth bared as the wolf comes out. “Take the keys,” he growls. “Take the Camaro. Get home to Molly.” When Stiles hesitates, Derek growls again, the wolf slipping even more into his expression. “ _Now!_ ”

Derek shoves and Stiles scrambles backwards. There’s no way he can leave Derek to face four wolves alone, but at the same time, there’s no way he can _stay_. The keys to the Camaro are in his hand, passed when Derek pushed him away. The Camaro. The _car_ , which is a huge moving object with the capability of mowing even werewolves down. They might bounce a bit, and they’d heal, but he could pick up Derek and they could get out of here. Safely. Both of them being safe.

He doesn’t take the time to watch the fight that’s already starting, all snarling claws and teeth. Stiles can’t stop now, not when he has a _plan_ because this time, _this_ time he can do something about it. He can save Derek.

He races up the hill, the key clutched in his hand, out and ready for the door. He only fumbles it a little as he skids to a stop, dropping it and catching it in his other hand. “Fuck. Shit. C’mon Stiles, get it together. All we have to do is drive down the hill, gun the engine a bit, scare some wolves, and—”

The hand over his mouth cuts him off abruptly. He twists, but hands hold him firmly as he’s yanked back against a hard body with soft curves. “Don’t struggle, Weaver,” she murmurs. “It’ll only be worse if you do.”

Her hand smells like the earth, and when he breathes in he starts to choke on the scent, as if dirt slips into his lungs and drowns him. He starts to claw at her arm, but nothing lets him move her. He can’t seem to shake her off and his vision greys while his lungs labor around the heavy scent of earth.

“I said not to struggle.” She doesn’t sound at all disappointed. Amused, perhaps. “But I should have known you would. From earth we come, and to earth we return, Weaver. Don’t try to fight it. It’s only natural progression after all.”

That? That sounds an awful lot like a death sentence, and Stiles isn’t going to die. Not today. Not now. Not _ever_ if he can help it. He twists and kicks and does his damnedest to escape.

Then the world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're welcome (hints of Sterek moments) and I'm sorry (the end). :)
> 
> The next post will be on Wednesday, June 5th, both in celebration of the new season and because it wouldn't be fair to make you wait until next Sunday. That means this week I'm going to blow through most of my buffer zone, so I'd better get a LOT of writing done. I have the outline set up through chapter 30, and have not found the end yet.
> 
> I hope y'all are continuing to enjoy the ride. Thank you for all your wonderful comments, and for telling your friend. Thank you to the folks who have been here since the beginning, and to those who have come in new and joined us. I appreciate every single one of you so much!! <3


	21. Chapter 21

Stiles wakes to find shackles around his wrists and ankles. His head aches but his lungs hurt worse, as if he’s been breathing underwater. Or in a sandstorm. He can still taste dirt inside his mouth.

He rolls over, trying to figure out how much play he has in his bindings, but the answer is: not much. The chains attached to the shackles are heavy and drawn up short where they attach to the wall. He can crouch, but he can’t stand. He can’t wave his hands when he talks, he can’t move very far. And worst of all, he has to piss and there don’t seem to be many options for a bathroom.

He needs to take stock. He needs to calm down and look around him and see what he can figure out. Then he needs to escape and get back to Molly and make sure Derek is safe.

He sinks into the weave with that thought, and touches the thick, bright strands that bleed out from him. He can tell who is who, and the brightest and thickest are still safe. Stiles knows that much at least, and he allows himself to relax.

Okay, first things first: where is he?

The sun leaks in through a small slit of a window high over his head, and the air around him smells like earth, only mustier—damper—than the scent of what choked him last night. A basement then. So they have a house with a basement, or at least a partial basement since this space isn’t very large. As his eyes are accustomed to the dark, he can see the shapes of what it probably a boiler and a water heater off to one side. Some shelves further off. Stairs leading up into the house, probably, unless this is one of those external access only basements. No, they don’t have those in Beacon Hills. They’re more of a midwest thing, right?

There’s no laundry, no boxes, no _things_ that most people keep in unfinished basements like this one.

Although most people don’t keep thick rings screwed into their wall, or heavy duty shackles. Stiles supposes it isn’t so strange for a bunch of werewolves at full moon, and wonders just how many other sets of rings there are in this space. Or maybe this is just for the new wolves.

New wolves.

_Fuck_.

He sinks into the weave again, searching through his own body for the telltale signs, but there is nothing. He hasn’t been bitten again. Thank God.

“Hannah says to stop doing that.” The door opens and closes at the top of the stairs and in its wake, a slender shape sits on the steps.

“Stop doing what?” His voice is hoarse, which doesn’t surprise him. He remembers screaming. Yelling. He can’t imagine how they didn’t attract the attention of whoever is the local law enforcement these days.

She waves a small hand, the gesture tight and controlled and somehow lazy at the same time. “That thing you do with your magic. I can’t smell it, but she can feel it. She says it twists the world in unnatural ways, and considering Hannah’s all about nature, it upsets her.”

Stiles laughs, he can’t help it. “I’m so bothered by the idea of upsetting one of you,” he says sharply. 

In a blink, she is at the bottom of the stairs, landing in a crouch, teeth bared and claws out and reaching for him. This close he remembers her: the petite wolf from outside the house, with Derek. From the attack on his family. From talking to Cass long before things went to hell. He remembers her and refuses to show her his fear.

“You should be,” she hisses. “We have your life in our hands. We have _you_.”

“You have my body,” Stiles responds flatly. “You don’t have _me_. I’m not going to do anything for you.”

“Won’t you?” A flex of her hands and the claws are gone, retracting into carefully tipped nails. She reminds him of Erica in the way she moves, only smaller, more like a cat than a lion. “I don’t think you have much of a choice, Stiles Stilinski Weaver.” She lets the pieces of his name drop into the air like small stones, and he feels the ripples out from her at each one. “We want a Weaver for our pack, and there are only two to choose from. Either we keep you, in _all_ ways, or we take your daughter. She’s one of ours already.”

“You’ve already got me then. Leave her alone.”  It’s only half a lie. He isn’t giving them anything yet, not until he knows how far he can push things. But he needs to keep Molly safe.

“It doesn’t work that way.” One claw is back, stroking along his cheek. Stiles fights his heart rate, but he feels the way it quickens in his chest, sees her feral smile at the sound. She murmurs, “Oh, you really are lovely, aren’t you? So pure and full of fury for your daughter and your pack. What would you do if I told you that your alpha is dead?”

That statement lets him breathe easier, because he _knows_ she is baiting him. He smiles. “I’d say you’re lying, because he’s not.”

“How do you _know_?”

The door at the top of the stairs opens again, footsteps light on the stairs. “Because he knows, Del. Because that’s how he works. You can’t tell him anyone close to him is dead because as long as he hasn’t cut the cord, he has a connection.”

When the newcomer smiles in the dim light, she is pretty. Dark brown hair in curls around her face, soft features. She is tall and broad-shouldered, rounded with soft curves over muscles Stiles can see. Her smile is friendly, like a girl next door. Something in her expression reminds him of Allison, and that is enough to make Stiles wary.

“Who are you?”

“Hannah Corann.” She says the name as if it is significant, and Stiles remembers it vaguely from their research. If she hasn’t take the name Maynard, there’s a reason. “And this lovely bitch is Delwin.”

Del points one claw at Hannah, flicking her fingers. “Do not forget who is the _alpha’s_ bitch,” she says sharply. “You do your thing, but the wolves are mine.”

Hannah meets Stiles’s gaze. “She killed our alpha’s wife two years ago and took her place. She may be small, but don’t underestimate her. Our Del is both strong _and_ certifiably insane. The only reason she hasn’t killed you yet is because he told her not to. If he changes his mind?” Hannah shrugs. “You’ll be dead.”

“He wants Molly.” The words are thick and rough on Stiles’s tongue. He is bargaining, trying to get them to choose him over his daughter. He doesn’t even want to say her name here, but in this case the name is better than reminding them of her importance to him.

“He wants a Weaver; he doesn’t care which one. She’ll come into her power soon enough, quicker if she’s pushed, but you have the advantage of already having your power.” Hannah reaches out one hand to hook her fingers in the waistband of Del’s jeans and tug her away from Stiles. “Better?”

Stiles won’t admit it, but yes. It’s hard to think with Del breathing down his neck as if she’d like to taste it. Instead he just shrugs and tries to keep his breath even and his heart rate slow. Del’s nostrils flare, so he’s probably failing, but he has to try.

“Now, let’s negotiate.” Hannah drops to sit cross-legged on the floor and pats the dirt, waiting for Stiles to sit. Del crouches next to her, balanced on her toes, looking as if she could attack at any moment. It doesn’t help Stiles’s heart to think that.

“There isn’t anything to say,” Stiles tells her. “You’ve got me, so you’ve got a Weaver. You’re going to leave Molly alone.”

Del’s grin is swift and sharp. “No.”

Hannah raises one hand. “That’s an option, and you’re right, we have you. We have a fully powered, already active Weaver who has a ridiculous amount of strength and very little knowledge how to use his ability.” Her smile is sweet and friendly, and Stiles swears that even in the darkness, he sees a spray of freckles across her nose. _Freckles_. How could someone with freckles be evil?

Except he knows she is. With his gut, he can tell. She’s playing the role of good cop, but she is as dangerous as Del. There is a scent of dirt around her, and Stiles knows without a doubt that it was her power that nearly choked him to death when he was captured. He’s pretty sure that if she needed to, she would dispatch him without a thought.

“I sense a _but_ in there somewhere.” He keeps his tone light. Joke in the face of danger, laugh in the face of death. He’s out of practice, but it comes back quickly.

“But…” Hannah lingers over the word. “Our Weaver in captivity is willful. Strong-minded and stubborn. He’s been fighting us since before he knew who we were, or else we’d have had him long ago. We’d hoped to bring him in peacefully. Introduce him to one of ours, get him involved, and then indoctrinate him into the pack.”

“You make it sound like a cult.” The words don’t reflect the sick feeling in his stomach as he wonders exactly how much of his life has been orchestrated by these wolves.

Del reaches out with one delicate claw to almost touch his cheek. “Family, not cult. You were supposed to be _mine_. I almost killed her years ago so I could have you, but he told me not to. Not yet. That we had to do it right.”

Oh thank God. Relief washes over him, because for a moment, for just a _moment_ he thought that they’d put Cass in his way because of Lydia. That they thought they knew his type, so they’d brought out their own pet redhead to sleep with him and that _all this_ had been planned.

He feels sick again that he’d rather Cass be dead than have sacrificed her life knowingly. But he loved her, in their own way. Their relationship hadn’t been exactly what either of them had expected, but he had loved her as much as he could.

“You killed her in the end.” He looks at Del then, and he knows his anger shows. He can feel it burning under his skin, can feel the way it impacts the weave, shaking the threads around him. He wonders how strong it would be, whether he could wrap it around her throat and draw it tight, squeezing the breath out of her in retaliation.

“Don’t.” The one word is a wash of earth drowning him, as if the air goes solid around him. He coughs, and Hannah smiles through a haze that exists only in Stiles’s mind. She keeps his gaze locked on hers and tells him again, “Don’t.”

He has to think about breathing, and at the same time he files away her casual use of _whatever_ in the back of his mind. He’ll see Allison and Danny soon enough and they’ll look into things. They’ll figure it out. He has to hold onto that. He has to assume there is someone coming to find him.

There’s not much he can do to rescue himself if Hannah’s going to bury him alive every time he tries to use the weave offensively. If it can even be used _against_ someone.

Del’s mouth twists with amusement. “Choke him again, Hannah. I like the way he gasps. Do you think we can make him beg?”

“Not yet.” Hannah’s hands on his face are kind, her touch light. “We haven’t decided yet if we’re keeping him. He might be too much trouble to break, and raising his daughter into our fold might be better. She can be taught.”

“Brainwashed, you mean.”

Hannah’s hand lies flat against his cheek as she looks at Stiles. Her eyes are dark, barely visible in the thin light of the basement, so brown they might almost be black. She leans in to press a light kiss against his forehead. “Not brainwashed,” she says softly. “Taught. She would be taught the way you should have been taught. She will learn what it means to be a Weaver, and what she is capable of. And she would be raised in a loving pack, with others around her who know what it means to be wolf and magic. She would thrive here, Weaver. Remind yourself of that. Or try to tell yourself it is better to raise her in ignorance, the way you were raised, so that she can suffer as you have done.”

“I haven’t suffered.” Stiles glares right back at her. “Life isn’t easy and it isn’t perfect. It’s better to figure that out early on and gain strength than it is to have everything offered to you on a plate.”

Okay, so he’s lying. He can think of a lot of things he’d probably have done differently, if given the chance, not the least of which is his father’s involvement with the supernatural. Or maybe what happened to his mother, when no one else knew what was going on. But he’s not going to talk about those, and there is no way that giving Molly up to this pack would make her life better than the one he can give her.

Hannah glances at Del, then at the stairs, and a moment later the petite werewolf is at the top of the stairs, looking down. The door is slightly open, a thin strip of light touching the stairs.

It gives Stiles and Hannah the illusion of privacy. It is nothing more than an illusion; Stiles knows Del can hear everything they say, even if they whisper. He supposes it is a nod to his humanity more than anything, even though they all know that for a few years, he ran with the wolves.

“There is one more thing you need to keep in mind,” Hannah whispers, her breath hot on his cheek. “We only need _one_ Weaver, and we cannot allow another pack to have one as well. One.” Her lips brush his skin as he shivers. “You or your daughter. Your choice.”

Her smile has never changed, still sweet and gentle while she threatens him. He sits stiffly while she checks his chains, adjusting them to give him just enough play to be able to stand fully, or possibly lie down more comfortably. She pauses before she leaves, reminding him, “Think about it.”

Stiles is left in the near dark, a spot of light too far away for him to reach. It isn’t much of a choice, he knows. If it comes down to him or Molly, he will always choose Molly.

He wonders if that was what his mother did, why she left him clueless and alone. Perhaps she was forced to make the same sort of choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Here's the promised bonus post (I'm not cruel enough to make you wait a whole week after that last). As a sidenote of curiosity, at 2500 words, this is the longest chapter I've posted to date (I have since written a 3k chapter... the average chapter length is definitely going up as the story gets longer). 
> 
> Thank you all for reading along and commenting; I hope you enjoy this mid-week chapter! The next chapter will return us to our regular weekly Sunday posts, with chapter 22 being posted on Sunday, June 9th. See you then!


	22. Chapter 22

There is nothing Stiles can do in the dark. He can drive himself mad by counting the seconds, but that won’t help anything. Or he can sink into the weave.

He settles cross-legged, irritated by the feel of the chains, heavy against him. Hands on his knees, he closes his eyes. Hannah Corann will know what he’s doing, he’s sure of that. Or she’ll know he’s doing _something_. He hopes it pricks at her senses and leaves her wondering. He hopes it bothers her and makes her skin itch.

Anything to relieve the boredom. 

Anything to fuck with his captors.

He pulls his senses in tight, wondering if he can build the weave into a barrier around himself. A protective shell. He’s never tried to ward _himself_ before, only places. Things. But he thinks he remembers the squiggle Lydia designed (he hears her voice telling him that it has a _mathematically stable root_ ) and he wonders if he can twist the threads that attach to him directly into some semblance of that pattern.

He looks at the shiny strings that spider off into the distance; he might need more of them. He might need them to be stronger, more flexible, more _here_.

Stiles needs to weave himself properly back into Beacon Hills.

He begins with the end, falling into the memory of himself outside his own home. The Jeep is packed with everything he plans to take to college, and Scott and Derek stand in front of the house. Derek’s expression is blank, but Scott looks like a kicked puppy. He takes a step towards Stiles, and Stiles steps back in response. He shakes his head and tells them, “Just trust me, this is more important than you know.”

There’s a sharp tug in his gut as the memory dissolves rapidly before that Stiles can walk away. He doubles over, protecting his stomach, hands clutching at the light he sees there, twisting and forming into a new, fresh weave that spreads slowly over him.

He has no control over where the weave takes him now as he draws the threads out, twisting them between his fingers into the pattern. He skitters backwards through an awkward summer, past things he can barely remember as he lived in that house alone. The movie in his mind stops abruptly in his room, waking into the darkness with a scream.

Derek is there, sitting on the edge of his bed, hands catching Stiles as he flails. “Nightmare,” he says, but Stiles can’t stop shaking. His dress shirt is rumpled and half-unbuttoned, his suit jacket crumpled under his pillow. The lump under his shoulder is Apple, and Stiles clutches at the bear, clinging to it and inhaling the familiar scent. He can almost detect a faint hint of perfume, and right now he needs that anchor.

“You have a stuffed animal.” 

Derek’s fingers graze the top of Apple’s head, right in front of Stiles’s nose, and he can’t help but jerk back away from him. It’s an instinctive reaction and he barely parses how it makes Derek go stiff and wary.

“My mom,” Stiles manages to say, and he feels how rough the words are in his throat, just like they were that night. It may be a memory, but he is there, trapped within this part of the weave, inside of this _thing_ that he tried to bury and cut out, but he couldn’t let it go, not completely. “She brought it for me, from New York, and then she _died_.” It’s a theme in his life by now. His mom died, his friends died. His father died. It’s all too much for him handle, the emotion of that last loss still fresh and bright in this memory of the day they buried the sheriff.

“Hey.” Derek inches closer, his hand on Stiles’s shoulder.

Stiles curls up tightly, refusing to look at the werewolf on his bed. “The dreamcatcher isn’t working. There’s nothing you can do to help, nothing for you to fight, so just go back to bed.” He swallows roughly as his eyes close. He rubs his cheek against the threadbare head of the bear and tries to hold back a fresh round of tears. “I appreciate that you’re staying in the guest room tonight and that I’m not alone in the house. Thank you. But there’s nothing else you can do.”

“Pack helps pack,” Derek says quietly. “You’ve been part of this long enough, Stiles. You know how this works.”

“You think I need a puppy pile to chase my tears away?” Stiles barks out a short laugh. “I’m fine, Derek.”

He remembers this, remembers the sudden tension as Derek twists and slowly lies down next to Stiles on the thin bed. There isn’t enough room for the two of them, not until Derek tucks in close behind Stiles, body curled around his, arm wrapped around his center. He remembers the sudden vivid warmth, and the glorious bliss of being _held_.

A soft touch to the back of his neck, just below the curl of his hair where it is getting too long. It is kind, and gentle, and everything that Derek _isn’t_ and Stiles starts to shudder all over again. He can feel the darkness closing in and at the same time, he has Derek wrapped around him, keeping him safe as he slides into the remembered panic attack. It is swift and vicious, stealing his breath and making his heart race. Hands clench tightly around Apple as he struggles to breathe, and through it all he feels those soft touches, small kisses to his shoulder just above the rumpled collar of his shirt.

Stiles comes back to himself wondering what the fuck is going on. And whether he cares about how strange it is, because it feels so damned right. On a day where everything has been so miserable—when he put his father in the _ground_ —this is the one thing that feels like it’s exactly what it should be.

He squeezes his eyes tight, feeling tears prick at the corner again. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Derek rolls backwards, and Stiles shifts so that neither of them falls off the bed. Apple ends up wedged between them and Derek lifts the ragged old bear, staring solemnly at black button eyes, one of them loose and hanging by only a thread. He leans to reach past Stiles and set the bear out of the way on the nightstand before that arm goes around Stiles, pulling him down, cradled against his chest.

Against his very warm, solid, and naked chest.

Stiles feels Derek go tense beneath him as his breathing changes. He is aware of Derek’s awareness, and that circles back around again to infect Stiles. He swallows and closes his eyes, willing himself to think of sleep. To think of anything other than crawling closer to the man who is just trying to comfort him in the only way he knows how.

This is pack, and pack _touches_. Pack lies together in the same bed. Pack clings. Pack pets each other and adores each other. Pack is solidity and strength.

And at the same time, this is Derek, and he is _real_ and _there_ and Stiles just wants to feel _alive._

His hand moves, fingers spreading out over Derek’s chest. He presses lightly, feeling the bump of his heartbeat, strong and steady and _fast_. Stiles can’t look at him, doesn’t want to see his expression. Derek will tell him _no_ any second, he’s sure of it, so he just keeps touching while he can. A light touch that skates over the smooth skin and hard planes, tips over the bump of one rigid nipple.

Derek’s breath catches, and he says nothing.

Stiles swallows and turns slightly, pressing his face into Derek’s shoulder. One small open-mouthed kiss, tongue licking salt from his skin. Another soft sound from Derek, and Stiles whimpers because that almost sounds like _yes_. He wants so much for it to be yes.

It takes everything he has to seek out Derek’s gaze in the dark. He blinks, heavy-lidded, and waits for Derek to look at him. “I want to feel,” Stiles whispers. “Please.”

The memory jumps and they are naked with Derek stretched out over Stiles. Hips rock together, a heavy, rough slip and slide that is almost too dry to be arousing. But it _is_ arousing and Stiles clings to Derek, pressing up and wanting more of that touch, of that silky smooth feeling of dick touching dick.

“I have lube,” Stiles manages to point out, because really, getting himself off while half-asleep is a basic survival skill, so it still manages to come to mind now, despite everything else. He flails one hand out, stopping when Derek holds him in place and reaches for it himself.

There is something about the image of Derek sitting back on his heels, straddling Stiles, slowly spilling lube into his hand and slicking his length that sears itself into Stiles’s mind. He tries to cut it out later, he knows how hard he tries, but this cord could never be cut, not completely. Years later he still wakes to this memory, even when he’s curled around Cass, even when he has something and someone else.

He remembers this, remembers that _look_ in Derek’s eyes, like there is nothing and no one else in the world but Stiles. He remembers the way his heart races when Derek leans down again, his hand touching Stiles, wrapping around his dick and giving it a long stroke from root to tip, rolling over the head and leaving slick lube behind. Doing it _again_ until Stiles’s eyes roll back in his head and he tries to arch up into the touch but can’t because Derek is still sitting on his hips.

“This is what you want?” Derek’s voice is low and hoarse and Stiles has a feeling that something more is being asked than what he’s hearing but he doesn’t _care_. He doesn’t just want this, he needs it. So he nods quickly and reaches up to pull Derek closer, tugging him into place while Derek reaches between them and wraps his hand around both their dicks.

They both begin to thrust, and oh God is it ever good. Stiles sees stars with every stroke and when he lives through the memory this second time he realizes that it is the first time he ever remembers seeing the weave come to light.

It is all around them, making Derek glow as his body arches over him, shining with sweat and magic. Stiles is buried beneath hunger and need and desire, but _this_ time, this one time he’s let himself remember this, he can see the weave tangling around them. Derek thrusts and Stiles cries out and threads reach out to tangle them together. Stiles digs his fingers into Derek’s shoulder, and another thread ties itself there, anchoring his touch.

Their first kiss comes while they are thrusting frantically together, straining for release. Wet and messy, Stiles silently begs Derek to plunder his mouth and he does before Stiles teases him back, tongue touching tongue. He breaks the kiss long enough to plead, to beg, to twist under Derek as he reaches for the orgasm that is just out of reach. Derek’s hand tightens on their dicks, pulling roughly, and that is all Stiles needs to go over the edge, body tensing before he comes all over Derek’s hand.

There is a flash of white behind his eyes, and he floats in a haze of light for a long moment while Derek reaches orgasm, painting Stiles’s belly with his fluids. As the shine fades, they are tangled together, a twisted mass of light and limbs. Stiles is loose-limbed and relaxed, his breathing slow and even.

His eyes close as Derek’s fingers trace some unknown pattern on his shoulder. He thinks he murmurs _thank you_ but even looking back on the memory he can’t be sure; sleep steals him away too quickly.

The memory skips forward to the morning, when Stiles awakens in his own bed, Apple on the nightstand with the dangling eye missing. The bed is still warm and smells of sex, but when Stiles goes to look, there is no one else in the house. He is alone.

Stiles yanks himself out of the weave before the memories scroll forward again, making him relive the desperate loneliness and confusion of that summer _again_. He’s already gone through it backwards today, he doesn’t need to do it twice. He gasps, his body caught somewhere between limp and hungry; just what he needs trapped here in someone else’s basement.

To his mind’s eye, it is no longer dark in the basement. His body shines, a living, twisted mass of thread writhing around him, shifting and changing without his planning. The pattern he has created is alive, reacting to every small movement. It shimmers and breathes, small lights darting along the threads and sparking off into the distance; Stiles swallows because he knows where some of those are going. He’s pretty sure that no one else can feel them but him, but he still wonders just what it means.

He wonders just what he has _done_.

Somewhere in the distance he hears howling. Sharp yips and growls of anger. The weave vibrates around him, and Stiles shoots to his feet, pulling against the chains. He won’t yell and risk either Del or Hannah coming down to shut him up, but he will call out with everything else he has. He sends himself into the weave and starts tugging on the threads that bind him to his pack. He calls them to him with magic and prays it works. They’ve come for him, and Stiles is desperate to be found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! We have earned our rating! I hope you have enjoyed it. If you're wondering how this fits into the timeline, this chapter takes place immediately after "Light the Corners, Catch My Dreams" which is the first (well, currently) in the series of backstory ficlets.
> 
> The next chapter will post on Sunday, June 16th. It may be later in the day next Sunday, because I will be away in the morning, so I apologize in advance for the late update!. Thank you all for being here and for your lovely comments. You are wonderful!


	23. Chapter 23

The door opens at the top of the stairs; Stiles can see a silhouette in the thin slit of light. A flashlight beam snakes down the stairs, and he flinches back from the light.

“I’ve got him!” Lydia’s voice, then she is clattering down the stairs with Danny and Allison close on her heels.

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles pulls against the shackles, feeling them rub sharp and rough against his ankles and wrists. “They got both of us.”

“No, they didn’t.” Allison stands halfway down the stairs, her crossbow pointed at the open doorway. Her voice is low. Stiles can hear growls in the distance, the sounds of things breaking. Fighting. “He came home last night and we’re here to get you now.”

“Molly?” Stiles tugs again, stopping when Lydia smacks his arm and grabs him to hold him still.

“Unless you want me to clip your finger instead of the restraints, stop,” she say curtly. Because she has hedge clippers in her hands. Not the large ones, but the sort that are small enough to fit into a pocket. She has obviously come prepared, and Stiles might ask later if she carries those around all the time. On the other hand, maybe not. The idea of Lydia carrying hedge clippers around is somewhat disturbing.

“Molly’s with Isaac and Scott at home,” Danny says, even and calm. He stands close, and as soon as the chain comes free and Stiles stumbles, Danny is there to catch him. “As much as we could have used their help, we wouldn’t risk leaving her with anyone else. The wards are doing what they’re meant to do.”

“They’re working?” Stiles blinks, grins, then he realizes what that means. “Wait, something tested them?”

“Three of the Maynard pack came by late last night, sniffing around after Derek came in without you.” Lydia’s grin is sharp as she works on the chain for the other shackles. “They couldn’t get within ten feet of the house. I don’t know what exactly you did there, but they looked like they were in pain.” She pauses to pat his arm. “That’s an excellent application for stable mathematics.”

The chain comes free with a clank, and Stiles rubs at his wrists. The shackles still bind him, too thick for the small clippers, but that doesn’t matter. He’s free. “Good. I want them to know that coming after me and mine means they’re going to hurt.” He feels better about knowing that Scott and Isaac are with Molly with the wards in place. Knowing they work is different from the guesswork, especially since he honestly isn’t sure exactly what he did there, either. “I just made your squiggle, Lydia. Teamwork.” He holds up one hand, and she gives him a light high five.

He takes stock quickly. He’s tired, even though he’s slept. He feels like he’s glowing, and no one else seems to notice it. He’s thirsty and hungry, because of course starving him was allowed as long as he didn’t actually _die_. “I know a bit more about what a Corann is,” he says quickly. “We can’t leave Derek fighting these guys alone.”

“He’s got Boyd, and _we_ are leaving.” Danny manages to wrap one arm around Stiles’s waist, pushing him to walk between him and Lydia which Stiles is frankly thankful for. He’s less steady than he wants to be, but he can fake it the way Danny’s holding on.

“We can’t leave the two of them here on their own. You don’t know what they’ve got.” Stiles remembers the feel of dirt slipping into his lungs, choking him. “If Hannah gets her hands on them… or even near them, I think.”

“Druid,” Lydia tells him. “We are completely aware of what it means, and it has already been taken care of. We’ve sent their alpha running; it won’t work forever, just until he heals, but it seems he’s taken your druid girl and his little wolf with him.”

“Little wolf… oh, Del? The girl, from outside Derek’s—the house.” Stiles is failing to pull the words together the way he wants to. Little slips in the way he thinks of things. It’s not Derek’s house. It’s not Stiles’s house. It’s not even Scott’s house. It belongs to the pack, and that’s it.

Lydia and Danny don’t say anything in response, simply making sure that he sets foot on the stairs, waiting for him to start the slow ascent. It’s harder than walking and he manages it one step at a time, wobbling slightly. He fights for his balance because they are going to change their mind. They are going to stay. “Pack doesn’t abandon pack,” Stiles points out.

“Pack doesn’t let pack fall flat on his ass and get captured again,” Lydia snaps. “You will get in that car if I have to tie you up and stuff you in the trunk. Has it occurred to you that your little girl is at home and scared out of her mind?”

“We’re not abandoning anyone.” Allison leads the way up the stairs, keeping two steps ahead at all times. “We’re acting according to a plan, the same one we spent the night making, so if you could fall in with that, it’d help out.” She hesitates at the top of the stairs to look back at them. “The plan’s simple, Stiles. Distract the alpha—”

“Done,” Lydia grins.

“—Rescue you—”

“Also done.”

Allison gives Lydia a look. “And in the meantime, I hunt, and Derek and Boyd take out everyone they can before they get away. I’ve got their backs, and they won’t be alone here when you leave with Lydia and Danny. That’s how an alliance _works_ , Stiles. You—you go home before you fall over, and you make sure your moon-called little girl is okay. Because this is a really bad day to give the wolves stress.”

Oh. _Crap_. With everything else, Stiles forgot that it’s the full moon today. _This_ is the day he came here for, the day that will end with Molly’s first transformation, and now there’s _this_. He had everything planned out and nothing’s working. This was all supposed to be so simple, and instead he’s caused trouble for everyone.

Lydia smacks the back of his head. “Whatever you are thinking, stop,” she says, her tone more fond than angry now. “We’ve got it all under control, and Derek and Boyd will be back in plenty of time for your cub. But we need to get you home and fed and patched up. Derek said you might be starving since he thinks you’ve been tugging on your lines for the last few hours.”

Stiles blinks. “He thinks _what_?”

Lydia wiggles her fingers. “Your magic. If you’ve been playing with it while you’re here, you’re probably hungry, and I doubt this has been a five star imprisonment.”

Stiles can’t get past the idea that Derek _thinks_ he’s been working with the weave. Not guessing, not making assumptions, but _thinks_ which implies that he has a reason other than the idea that Stiles does it a lot. Otherwise he might have assumed that Stiles was unconscious or being tortured, not sitting around tugging on the threads of the weave, which was actually _exactly_ what he had been doing.

It worries him to think that someone could notice. It makes him wonder _why_ and _who else_ and a few other things that he’ll look at in more detail later when he has some vague level of coherence.

“Are we done arguing about whether Derek needs rescuing?” Danny tightens his arm on Stiles’s waist. He’s holding him close enough that if it were high school, Stiles might be having different thoughts. “Because if we stand here talking, our window for escape gets narrower.”

Allison gestures with her crossbow. “I’m going through first, and I’ll cover your route to the car. If you have to put him over your shoulder, do it.”

“Hey!” Stiles barely has time to get the word out before Danny is hoisting him to do just that. His body dangles, his hands reaching out to grip Danny’s back. “I don’t need to be carried.”

“We can move faster,” Danny says.

“And in the right direction.” Lydia gives him a quick look and a smile and Stiles wonders (not for the first time) if she can read his mind. Bolting _towards_ the growls might have been an option, if he thought he could actually run.

They edge past Allison into a kitchen Stiles doesn’t recognize. Since Danny has him securely, Stiles lets his mind slip into the weave, and the world immediately tilts around him.

There is _something_ here, now that he’s upstairs and can see it clearly. The basement wasn’t protected in the same way, but something lays over this part of the house. It’s rough, and jagged, and heavy and it tangles with the weave around Stiles, drawing him in and shoving him out. He plucks at a string and feels the world shake.

Like the Hales then, back when his mother tried to set wards. A pull that is unbalanced, working against him. Something that does not belong.

Stiles needs to weave them out. But he needs to know _how_ to do it, how to force them entirely out of Beacon Hills and more importantly, how to keep them out of his pack’s lives, no matter where they are.

“I can do something,” he says, pulling another thread and twisting it. He tests it quickly, making sure it doesn’t belong to anything _important_ before he cuts it abruptly. Something eases in his head and he can breathe; he sucks air in and holds it before letting it out in a slow rush. “Put me down, Danny. I need to be here. I can help, I think. This is their space and I can help fuck it up.”

“They won’t be coming back here after Derek’s done with them.”

“They aren’t going to be that easy to get out of Beacon Hills.” Stiles knows this now, knows they have been patient for so long with him, but they’re done with that now. They’ll be here. He wants to know where. He starts to squirm and Danny grips him more tightly. “C’mon, dude, you know what I do. It’s the reverse of the squiggle. Lydia, we can unravel them, and force them out.”

“I need more time to figure out how to do it correctly.” Her voice is amazingly calm, considering the sounds they hear from the front of the house. Too many growls for Stiles’s comfort. Too many yips and yells and sounds that rise and are cut off. He can hear the fight and feel it in his bones, and he doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like knowing Derek is out there.

They are at the back door, and Allison tugs it open quietly. “You have to go around front to get to the car, but I’ve got you,” she says quietly. “I’ll join in when we get there, and we’ll be right behind you on the way home.”

Stiles wants to tell her that she can’t shoot _anyone_ if they’re brawling. She might get Derek or Boyd. She might do something wrong. She might get hurt herself; for all her arsenal, she’s still a fragile human. He reaches out. “Allison.”

She turns, and he manages to catch her arm, holding on tight. Eyes closed, he lets the squiggle that he wrapped around himself flow over her skin, making her glow in his eyes. The layer is thin, shared between them, but he hopes it helps. Her expression is bewildered, gaze narrowed, and Stiles smiles innocently. “Stay safe,” he orders, then he lets her go.

It’s not so bad that he’s being carried, he realizes, his legs aching and limp. Last night’s ice cream seems far away, and he’s desperate for something to give him energy now. Lydia crowds close as Allison leads the way down the side of the house, closer to the snarling wolves.

Stiles wonders how the neighbors do not see it. They are in the middle of a neighborhood, another house nearby with mums and marigolds planted outside. This is a family space. Probably a neighborhood watch space, and yet, there are no sirens, no signs of the law caring about the fight on the lawn.

He looks again, and that _heaviness_ ends at the edge of the property.

This house is warded, and the wards are nothing like his own. Corann magic, he’s sure of it. It _feels_ like Hannah, feels like that weight that crushed him from the inside, and it smells like wet earth. _Druid_ , Lydia had said. That makes sense.

Allison stops at the corner and steadies her crossbow. Danny and Lydia wait behind her. At the moment she fires, they move, crossing the neighbor’s lawn to Danny’s car. Stiles lifts his head and takes in the scene as quickly as he can. Allison firing bolts, Derek and Boyd fighting, two werewolves on the ground and another four still standing. Three, as one crumples from a bolt in the shoulder and a slash across the gut.

Danny yanks open the back door and shoves Stiles into it, sprawled across the seat. He can’t find the energy to snap on a seatbelt, but instead he closes his eyes and sees that thick thread that ties him to Derek. What little he has left goes into that thread, making it stronger, sending it down the line to make _Derek_ stronger.

He hears the growl that curls in his gut, and he smiles. Derek’s going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Father's Day, Stiles!
> 
> Okay, yes, I'm silly and punchy. It's been a long, fun weekend with friends, and I am sitting in the middle of chaos while posting this. There is a fire, and several children, and lots of people. ANYWAY. New chapter! I hope you enjoy! And the next will be up on Sunday, June 23rd. Thank you all for your amazing comments, and welcome to the new folks that started reading this week. You are all AWESOME!


	24. Chapter 24

Danny carries Stiles into the house and carefully sets him on the sofa. Stiles barely has time to open his eyes before arms go around his neck and a small body is climbing him. Molly is whimpering, curling tight into the space on his lap, and his arm automatically goes around her and holds on tight. She burrows, her face against his throat, snuffling and sniffing until she catches his scent in full and lets her breath go with a little sob.

“Daddy.”

“I’ve got you.” Although truth is, she’s got him more than Stiles is holding her. He feels weak, exhausted. Having Molly near helps. She’s his family, his blood, and he can feel energy from her sinking into his skin. He’s not taking it away on purpose, and he has no idea if she even knows that she’s giving it, winding their threads together to help him.

He glances up to see Scott and Isaac watching him from another chair, somehow managing to share that space and hold onto each other. He smiles weakly at them, and sees the relief in Scott’s eyes in return. Holding up one wrist, he says, “Shackles.”

It isn’t easy with Molly refusing to leave Stiles, but Scott manages to get the actual shackles off, taking them and the trailing chains away. His wrists ache, but at least he’s free, and doesn’t have to worry about hurting his daughter by accident.

“Can you sit up?” Danny comes from the kitchen, Lydia close behind with a tray of food. Stiles can smell it and his stomach twists at the scent, growling so loudly that Molly makes a muffled sound like a cross between a whine and a giggle. Stiles tries to push himself up, but his arms are shaking and he doesn’t protest when Danny helps him drag himself into position.

Molly settles herself next to his hip, curled in close, eyes closed as she breathes in and out in small whuffling noises.

Lydia places the tray across his lap. “Start with the juice. Sugar plus nutrients to give your body a jumpstart, and use it to take the pills. They’re my best guess for a vitamin cocktail that will replace what you’re likely losing and help replenish your energies. It’s not a replacement for avoiding exhaustion in the first place, and you can _not_ expect to live on them daily without damage to yourself. But they will help for now.”

“I didn’t set out to drain every reserve I have,” Stiles says dryly. “And I know you yell because you love me.”

Lydia manages to wedge herself in on his other side, her body cool in comparison to Molly’s heat. “Exactly,” she says softly. She tangles her hand with the one Stiles isn’t using to eat. “I was worried. We were all worried.”

“Uncle Derek growled,” Molly whispers, and Stiles realizes that she has her thumb in her mouth, a habit he thought she’d lost years ago. “He was all snarly and fuzzy and long teeth. He was scary when he came home last night and it woke me up. And he _lost_ you. He didn’t like losing you. I was mad at him and I growled and yelled.”

“Did you tell him exactly how angry you were?” Stiles can imagine it, her standing there in front of Derek, sleepily yelling at him. He doesn’t have the heart to chastise her for it.

“Of course, Daddy.” She snuggles down closer. “And I told him he had to find you and bring you back, so he did.” A small frown furrows her eyebrows. “Where’s Uncle Derek, Daddy?”

Stiles lets himself feel the weave, touches the strands that lead to Derek and feels that he’s still out there somewhere. Alive. “He’ll be here soon, baby,” he murmurs. “He’s making sure the bad guys don’t do this again.”

“Will they be all gone after this?” Molly sounds so hopeful that Stiles hates to tell her the truth. When he shakes his head, her hopeful smile falls away. “When will they be all gone?”

“Soon.” Once upon a time, Stiles _hated_ it when his parents would tell him _soon_. He swore he’d never do that, he’d never leave his kids hanging with no real information and hoping for something that might never happen. And here he is, saying _soon_ because there is no other answer he can give. It has to be soon, because if it isn’t, Stiles doesn’t know if they can take it anymore. The violence is ramping up, and he’s been given a choice. Stiles isn’t foolish enough to think that it’s over just because he escaped.

“Eat.” Lydia holds out a piece of toast. “Toast, banana, fruit, cheese. It’s not a great meal, I know, but it’s all easy to eat, should be easy on your stomach, and covers most of the groups I could think of. I considered including something rich in iron, but I don’t know what you think of spinach, and I doubt you like liver. We’ll make burgers in a bit.”

“Hate liver,” Stiles says around a mouthful of banana. “Fries. Burgers. Anything sounds good right now. I feel like I haven’t eaten in a week.” He stops talking in favor of eating, chewing quickly so he can bolt the food down. As the plate empties, Danny brings back some cold Chinese which Stiles eats without caring that it hasn’t been heated up. Two brownies follow that, the second of which he splits with Molly who has yet to let go of him.

After that he feels less desperate, although he’s far from sated yet. “I can wait until dinner for more,” he decides. “As long as dinner is early.”

Molly sits up. “Uncle Derek’s here.” She runs to the door, jumping for the handle, waiting impatiently for Danny to pull it open as the Camaro pulls into the driveway. She hovers on the edge of the doorway, not going out without permission but waiting anxiously for the second that Derek gets close enough for her to throw herself at his legs and wrap herself around him.

If Stiles weren’t so worried about all the blood he can see, he’d be more amused at Derek’s expression of complete bewilderment… a look that quickly turns wry, then fond, easing into a smile. “I’m okay, Molly.” His voice is a rough growl, teeth still sharp, face still furry.

“You haven’t come back from beta form yet. You’re not okay,” Danny tells him as he pulls him inside. Boyd follows, human but bloody, and Allison brings up the rear, her crossbow still in hand. She only relaxes once the door is closed, lowering the bow slowly. Scott and Isaac flank her immediately, touching her with a care and reverence that makes Stiles look away.

He lets his gaze shift back to Derek, taking stock. He’s still wolfed out, breathing rough, broad across the shoulders. There is blood everywhere, and Stiles has no idea how much of it belongs to the Maynards and how much is Derek’s, but it bothers him to see it. He stands and takes a step forward, then sways slightly; he grips the back of the sofa for support as Derek’s attention shifts to pin him.

Stiles inclines his head. “Thanks for coming to get me. They took me before I could get in the car.”

“I know.” Derek’s eyes flash and he looks away.

“You’re hurt,” Molly says worriedly. “You smell like your blood and Daddy’s hurt too, and I don’t like this.”

“Molly, baby, we’re all right.” Stiles crouches carefully, lowering himself to her level and she runs to him, throwing her arms around his neck and nuzzling his throat. “We’re all going to be fine,” he murmurs, pressing his face to her hair. “We’ll all get washed up and get rid of the blood and see what kind of band-aids we need. And you can pick out your favorites and bring them to us, okay? Whichever ones you think we need most. Do you remember where the first aid kit is?” Because Stiles is pretty sure that while a house full of mostly werewolves might have band-aids for the humans, they won’t have the kind that Molly likes best. But there’s a kit in Stiles’s duffle, and he’s knows Molly can find it on her own.

She nods solemnly, sniffling slightly. “I was _scared_. And my skin feels funny. And I don’t _like_ it.”

The moon. Shit. He keeps forgetting that that’s _tonight_. Everything’s upside down and every little plan he made has been tossed out already. He tries to keep his heart rate even, his breath even, so he doesn’t worry Molly. “I know. Let us all get cleaned up and we’ll talk about tonight, okay? Because the moon’s what’s making your skin feel funny, but Uncle Derek can help you with that. I promise.”

“And you’re not going anywhere again?” Molly asks worriedly.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Stiles promises. “Just upstairs for a little while. Can you help Lydia make some dinner? It’s early, but I bet I’m not the only one hungry.” Wolves are always hungry, after all, and they’ve just been in a fight. 

Boyd slips away, heading to the basement; Stiles figures there must be a bathroom down there he hasn’t noticed.

“You guys go upstairs.” Allison shoos them. “We’ll all take care of the kitchen. I don’t need to wash much more than my hands. One of you can use the master bath; Scott and Isaac won’t mind.” The boys echo her statement.

Derek nods once and as he heads for the stairs, Stiles follows, trying not to think about how much he _hurts_ right now. He climbs slowly behind Derek, still taking stock of the blood streaks he can see, trying to sort out which ones are injuries and which are just spatter. He can spot at least one bite in the meat of his arm, and a thick rake of claws that shredded the side of his shirt. Derek’s favoring his left leg, which implies there is something there as well, but Stiles can’t see anything through the heavy mat of blood on his jeans.

Stiles reaches out, stopping him just before he goes into the main bathroom. “I’m going to come to your room after I’m cleaned up,” Stiles tells him. “I want to make sure those wounds are clean, because you’re moving like it hurts. Boyd looked like he was already healing, but you don’t.”

“They had a hunter,” Derek says, voice low. “Two of them. They went with the alpha, along with half his pack and his pet magic user, but not until after we got the alpha out of there. He just left a few behind to take care of us. He underestimated us, which was good for now, but I doubt it will happen again, so we’re done being lucky. We need to be smart next time, get to them before they get to us.”

“Their magic user is a druid, Lydia said.” Stiles remembers the dirt in his lungs clearly. “She’s powerful, and her magic is offensive as well as defensive. She’s not like me.”

Derek quirks a smile. “No one is.”

“Hah.” Stiles smiles back before he realizes it, then he shifts his focus to Derek’s arm, where the bite is. He reaches out, fingers light as he touches it, looking into the way light shimmers over it, little bumps in the weave that don’t belong. “You definitely need these wounds cleaned,” he says quietly. “I don’t know exactly what you’ve got in them, but it probably doesn’t feel good, and I’d bet you’ll start feeling shaky soon.”

Derek’s hand wraps gently around Stiles’s forearm, twisting to bring it under the light, showing the abrasions around his wrist. “Fine,” he agrees. “You fix mine, I’ll fix yours, and you’ll shut up and not resist.”

“I wasn’t going to—” Stiles makes a face. Okay, so maybe he would just ignore it, because it’s not that big a deal, not like magically infected bites that make rumbles in the magic around them. “It’s not poisoned, it’s just a scrape. Shackles and human skin don’t mix well.”

“And your daughter will be made _more_ anxious by the scent of your blood,” Derek reminds him, squeezing before he lets go. “On the full moon. Her _first_ full moon. We need to be doing everything we can to calm her down, so you do as I say, and we get you cleaned up. Go.” He points down the hall to the master bedroom. “Shower.”

Stiles doesn’t have clothes with him, but right now that doesn’t matter. He’ll have a towel, and he can get dressed after, and all he really wants to do is wash the blood and grime off of him.

At the same time, he’ll try not to think about the fact that Derek’s showering in the room right next to him, on the other side of the wall.

It’s going to be hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good morning, and happy Sunday, and I think this just might have made this fic my longest on AO3. If not, we're close to that point. It will be soon anyway! Thank you all for sticking with me, and welcome to the new readers. And as always, thank you so much for your support and your comments; they mean the world to me, and give me loads of energy to write more!!
> 
> The next part will post on Sunday, June 30th. See you then!


	25. Chapter 25

Stiles lets the water wash over him for a long time without even bothering to scrub. It feels good, sluicing over his head, droplets falling like threads around his body. He can still feel the shimmer of whatever he did to himself, and at some point, when he has energy to spare, he needs to sit down and really take a good look at that. And see if he can find the remnants of what he tried to give to Allison, and figure out how permanent it all is. He’s in uncharted waters right now.

Hah. Waters. Shower. Pun sort of intended.

It makes him laugh, anyway, and it shakes him out of his thoughts so he can grab the soap and start washing up. His skin hurts where the shackles were, the abrasions deeper than he thought. No matter how gentle he tries to be, he can’t help the wince and the way his breath sucks in every time he touches the wounds.

Finally done, he twists the tap off and reaches out into the steamy bathroom to blindly seek a towel. He wraps it around his waist before stepping out onto the bathmat, water dripping down his body as he tucks the corner of the towel in. He should dry off, but a little water won’t hurt the carpet for a moment while he goes to find something to wear. Scott should have something that’s close enough, Stiles figures.

“I brought you clothes.”

Stiles jumps, stumbling back and catching himself against the wall. “Dude. Do _not_ loom in the fog. I thought we covered the no looming rules already. Didn’t we just talk about this yesterday? Holy fuck, was that _only_ yesterday?” It was before ice cream, which was… last night. Maybe twenty-four hours ago, but probably not even that much since the moon’s not up yet. Shit. It seems like an entire lifetime has happened since then.

Derek sets the bundle he’s carrying on the edge of the sink. “I figured you’d rather be dressed than sitting around in a towel.” His gaze drifts over Stiles, down then up, and Stiles fights the flush and rise in his heartbeat.

“You’re right,” Stiles says. “So go on back to your room and I’ll be there in a minute to patch you up.” Because even in clean clothes, Stiles can still see the bite on Derek’s arm, and he knows the other injuries are still hiding there. If they had been going to heal, they would have started before Derek arrived home; these need help before healing can begin.

When Derek doesn’t move, Stiles starts to chew on one fingernail, waiting. He nods at the door, and finally Derek goes, pulling it almost closed behind him but leaving just a small crack open to let the steam escape. Stiles towels off and dresses quickly, not wanting to think about Derek possibly being on the other side of that door while he’s naked.

It’s a distraction. And after reliving those memories, it’s even more of a distraction than before. He can feel the draw, feel the thread that pulls him in towards Derek in ways he was never tied to Cass.

_Cass_.

The thought of her washes over him and he sits down hard, landing in a heap on the floor, head bowed and in his hands. His ass is on a wet spot of the carpet and he doesn’t care. Cass is dead and what the hell is he doing fantasizing about Derek? Fuck. He just… he doesn’t have time for this. Any of this. He has wounds to check, magic to do, and a daughter to keep safe. Everything else—grief _and_ fantasies—can wait.

When a body settles next to him, pressed up against him and still warm from the shower and smelling of soap, it’s a surprise, and it’s welcome. Stiles doesn’t need to look to know that it’s Derek; he recognizes the heat and breadth of his body. When Stiles starts to shiver, an arm goes around his back and he’s tugged closer, turned until his face presses against Derek’s arm. It anchors him through what wants to be a panic attack but never completely manifests, leaving him chilled and wet from the floor, shivering still, even after it starts to fade.

“I was thinking about Cass,” Stiles says softly. “Then you’re here. And do you remember? Last time you tried to comfort me when someone in my life died, we had sex.”

A low snort. “ _Now_ you want to talk about that?”

Stiles thinks about all the werewolf ears that might have pricked up and shakes his head. “Not really, no, but it’s not as off the table as it was before. The conversation,” he clarifies. He doesn’t want Derek to think he’s trying to get in bed right now. Or at all. Oh fuck, he needs to just stop thinking. He pinches the bridge of his nose tightly, and feels the shudder of laughter from Derek.

He reacts on instinct, elbowing him in the ribs, and immediately feeling guilty at the hiss of pain. “Ah, fuck,” Stiles swears, turning to look at him, tugging Derek’s shirt up to see the thick purple spread across his ribs. “You got hit in the ribs and they aren’t healing yet? Why aren’t they healing?”

Derek pulls the shirt from his hands and pushes it back down. “Not in Scott and Isaac’s bathroom,” he says firmly. “I’ve got everything we need—including antiseptic for you—in my room, so let’s go.”

Stiles wishes magic were useful in the real world in very Harry Potter ways sometimes; it would be nice to be able to magically dry the ass of his jeans. On the other hand, it amuses him to walk behind Derek and see the way wet jeans cling to him. He frowns, remembering the blood that stained what he’d been wearing before, and when he looks carefully, Derek’s still favoring that leg.

“Getting dressed was a good trick,” Stiles says dryly as they nudge the door to Derek’s room mostly closed behind them. “But I already took stock of your injuries and I’m not going to forget your ribs now, or the one on your thigh, so be ready to show them to me.”

“In a minute.” Derek points at the bed, a quick jab of silent direction. Stiles considers ignoring him, but the chair is covered with medical supplies and Derek is giving him the stubborn look, so with a sigh, Stiles sits.

Derek takes his forearm in one hand, fingers gentle as they press around the edges of the abrasions. “This isn’t good,” Derek murmurs. “If you were a wolf, I wouldn’t worry. But you’re human, and I don’t know how old and dirty those shackles were. We’re going to clean this again with an antiseptic, then—” He stops as Stiles yanks his arm away.

“No.” Stiles cradles the arm against his chest. “We are _not_ dumping alcohol all over my arm. Hot soapy water hurt enough, thanks, and I don’t intend to make it worse. Put on an ointment if you want, and shove a band-aid over it. My daughter has some cute ones that she’ll be bringing up shortly, I’m sure. But there is not going to be _anything_ washing it again.”

“Hush.” When Derek grips him this time, Stiles can’t pull free, can’t do anything but squirm and bite back an embarrassing whine as Derek painstakingly cleans the wound. He is gentle, but it still _hurts_ , and Stiles squirms on the bed. 

“I’m supposed to be healing you,” Stiles mutters. “Not you playing nurse for me. I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse. Hell, you’ve _seen_ me deal with worse.”

Derek gives him a look.

Stiles waves his other hand. “What? It’s just… it hurts. I’m used to it by now. I’ve even had my shots. Completely up to date on tetanus, which is handy right about now.”

“You shouldn’t be used to it.” Derek finishes carefully wrapping one wrist and moves on to the other. “You have a cub, and she’s being distracted right now, but you should be at your best when she comes to find you. You’re her anchor for the full moon.”

“You _think_ I’m her anchor. We don’t know anything for sure yet,” Stiles says. He breathes in and out slowly, trying to look past the pain, but not look too closely at the way Derek’s fingers glide over his skin. The memories from the weave are too close to the surface for him _not_ to think about it right now. He bites his lip and stares at the floor.

“We’ll be finding out soon.” Derek twists the bandage around his wrist and lets him go. “She can feel the moon. I hear her heartbeat from here, and it’s getting faster. Everyone’s feeling it by this point.”

“What about Maynard tonight?” Stiles has to wonder if the fight just stops because of the moon. They each have their own problems to deal with, and no one has perfect control, not even the born and bred werewolf sitting on the bed with him. “Will they be more feral? Less? We don’t know much about them.”

“No matter how good their alpha, the moon will call to him.” Derek’s voice is tight. “Being in control means being able to use our strengths no matter what phase of the moon it is. Being in control means not killing during the moon, knowing how to run and howl without giving in entirely to the wolf. But we all need to listen to the moon. Even the Maynard pack will be distracted tonight.”

“Let me look at this.” Stiles lets his fingers ghost over the bite on Derek’s shoulder, pausing when he winces. His lips press together as he closes his eyes, looking at the weave rather than the body. He can see where it’s tangled, threads broken and twisted into strange shapes. His shoulder, his side, and the meat of his thigh in a large blot. Stiles doesn’t think before he reaches out, hand flat against that thigh, fingers digging into the threads there and twisting them together.

Derek grunts, and Stiles swallows. He licks his lips, measuring each breath.

“There’s something tangled up in your weave,” he explains, coughing once when his voice croaks hoarse. “Just like when I was bit, and I had to unweave the infection. I can’t heal, but I can weave something out that doesn’t belong, and this doesn’t belong. I just… I need you to sit still.”

“While you touch me.” Derek’s voice is flat, and Stiles can’t look him in the eyes.

He laughs, just a little. “While I touch you,” he agrees. “I need to redo the weave, untangle the things that don’t belong and take them out. Just stay still, and it won’t take long.”

“Do it.”

Stiles drags in a shuddering breath, all too aware of how hard his heart is hammering right now. He lets his hand flatten against Derek’s thigh, palm pressed tight while his fingers curl slightly, catching threads. His tongue pokes out between his teeth, caught there in concentration as he picks gently at each thread, layering them over his fingers, shaking out the things that do not belong. He can feel the rumble along his skin, and the scent of earth rises around them. He hears Derek sniff, then feels him shake as Stiles pushes the weave inside of him, tying it to his body.

“Don’t.” The word sounds strangled, taut, a sudden tension lining Derek’s muscles. Stiles’s head falls forward, almost touching Derek’s shoulder.

“I have to.” It makes Stiles curious about something as he works, and he sets the weave right in that one place. The blot is different at his ribs, and he’s going to need both hands, and to touch skin. The first was easy, this next is deeper. The arm is the worst, and he saves that for last. “Lean back.”

“Stiles.” Dark and full of warning that Stiles ignores, pushing his hands against Derek’s chest.

“Lean back,” he orders, and as Derek does, Stiles pushes his shirt up, baring the angry purple and black bruises. His hands curve slightly, following the line of Derek’s ribs as he presses down and ignores the hiss of pain. “Can you imagine how this would feel when you shift tonight? You’ll be taking your full alpha form, won’t you?” Stiles has never seen Derek do that; even in the three years he’d known him before leaving, Derek had never had full control. But he does now, Stiles is sure of it, and he knows what that means. “If you shift like this, you’ll either heal badly, or worse yet, break something more. So let me get the poison out of you so you can heal _now_.”

Derek’s head goes back, the line of his throat exposed as his hands reach out, twisting in the sheets. Stiles watches as he works, sees how Derek moves beneath each touch. Stiles carefully picks out the things that do not belong and discards them, feeling them oily and wrong against his skin. He has to tie the threads back together, giving some of his own to fix the mesh that is Derek.

Every time he touches him, every twist of thread, every bit of energy, Derek shivers.

Stiles grasps a thread that lies between them, a thick knotted cord of light, and he tugs. Derek arches on the bed with a low groan.

“You feel that.” Stiles swallows because that… that’s not supposed to happen. He’s sure of it. But he remembers what Lydia said and how she said it, that Derek knew he’d been deep inside the weave. “You can tell when I’m weaving.”

“Finish,” Derek orders, and when Stiles starts to protest, a hand wraps around his wrist, claws visible. A low growl builds and Derek’s eyes flash alpha red. “ _Finish_.”

It changes everything, knowing that touching the weave that lies between them is playing Derek like a harp. Stiles tries to be gentle, but he doesn’t think it helps, and it might even make things worse. He closes his eyes so he can’t see him, the sound of those small moans intensified by the darkness and going straight to his groin.

Fuck. He tried to leave this behind, he did, and now… now he doesn’t know what’s happening.

Fingers spread across Derek’s ribs, Stiles seeks out the remainder of the infection and carefully weaves around it. He looks at the weave rather than Derek’s body and finds smaller blots, places where he hadn’t seen injuries but where he must have been struck. Two spots from within his lungs, one over his heart, with Stiles reaching under the shirt with a sure touch, fingertips skating over Derek’s skin until he’s done.

There is only one thick knot of black remaining when he’s done, deep in the meat of Derek’s shoulder, tendrils winding into the weave that slides down his arm. It is entrenched, bound to Derek like it fights to take control. As soon as Stiles touches it, Derek cries out.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and presses his left hand against Derek’s chest, fingers slightly curled as he feels his heartbeat. “You were bitten by the alpha, weren’t you.” It isn’t a question, just a statement of fact, and he doesn’t need to hear the answering grunt to know the truth. “It’s fighting you. I think it’s fighting for control of you, and I don’t think that should be possible, but it’s like he’s trying to convert you to his pack somehow. I’ve never heard of that happening.”

He works as he talks, the words meant to distract Derek as his fingers dig into the threads, brutally snapping the ones that don’t belong. Each cut makes Derek twist on the bed, and in the distance, Stiles dimly hears an answering whimper. He doesn’t have time to think about it because the bite is fighting back.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. He can’t be slow this time, he needs to just rip this infection apart. He presses his hand briefly against Derek’s chest, one last silent apology, before he thrusts both hands into the weave, peeling it apart. He twists his hand, wrapping dark threads around his fingers and tearing them, shaking them away into the air. 

The door opens and the bed shifts; Derek eases, and Stiles takes advantage of his unexpected lassitude. He rips the last of the threads out, sifting through what’s left in tattered remains before he starts to tie things back together. The threads grow quickly, tangled around Derek’s arm and Stiles’s hand, twisting their weaves together.

When he finally opens his eyes, the wound is starting to knit closed, angry and red but healing.

His gaze shifts to Derek, who is watching him, with Molly curled up tight against his other side.

Molly blinks and smiles slightly. Her hand is on Derek’s chest, and Stiles can see the faint lines of black on her hand. “He hurt,” she says simply. “I helped make it better. Can you give him a band-aid now?”

“Pack instincts,” Derek says roughly.

Stiles knows it’s true. He’s seen enough about how the wolves can take away pain from animals, but he’d never really thought about how the puppy piles worked before. He’d never noticed those thin lines of black—the visible evidence of pain—sliding up someone’s skin because they were comforting pack. Seeing it on his daughter’s arm is a shock, but it makes sense. She’s four. She doesn’t think about anything other than the moment, and she wants to help.

A wave of exhaustion slides through Stiles and he slips off the bed onto the floor. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Pick out your favorite band-aid and put it on his arm for me, okay? Do you think you can do that?” He leans forward, knees bent and elbows propped on them, his head in his hands. Behind him, Molly is moving around the bed, chattering at Derek and telling him what band-aids she has for him to choose from.

A hand falls to touch his hair, fingers sifting through the strands, and Stiles can feel that touch fluttering in the weave around him. Behind him, Derek approves a bright pink band-aid, and once it is applied, Molly tucks in close to him again, her small feet brushing Stiles’s cheek as he leans towards her.

Pack heals pack. Stiles lets his hand fall to Derek’s leg and completes the circle, the three of them silent and letting healing happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself that if I reached a certain milestone by Wednesday morning, I would post a bonus chapter. Well, it's Wednesday morning, and this milestone, which I have been inching towards for weeks, suddenly took a giant leap (okay for me it's giant) in the last few days and I stumbled past it. So. Here we are.
> 
> This is a good chapter for a milestone bonus. It's the first chapter over 3k long in the story so far. It's got stuff I hope people will really enjoy. Hopefully it'll make a nice mid-week treat.
> 
> Thank you to all the new subscribers for joining us here, and to those who have been here all along, thank you for sticking with me. Your comments are amazing, and your energy helps me keep writing. You are all brilliant.
> 
> The next chapter will post on Sunday the 30th. See you then!


	26. Chapter 26

Stiles can feel the rise of the moon. Not in his bones or under his skin, but in the tension that slips into Derek’s leg where he leans, and in the shivering, whimpering form of his daughter. She twists and turns, staying in close contact with both Stiles and Derek, but no longer able to stay still. He can feel it in the impact against the weave as well, the way it is slipping inside of the people within the house.

He understands why the Hale house was so large; humans and wolves and the fullmoon. He feels as if they are all on top of each other here, and he can’t imagine how this is going to work. Even with the adults having full control, Molly most definitely does not, and it shows. At a whimper, he raises one hand, catches her ankle lightly. “Baby, you okay?”

“My skin feels funny.” She rolls away from him, sitting up, and the chain is broken. Derek’s hand rises from Stiles’s hair, and he pulls back as well, turning on the floor to face the bed and trying to hide the wince when his ankles bump against something.

He doesn’t do it well enough; Derek’s brows furrow, gaze dropping to where Stiles sits. “You’re still hurt.”

“Observant,” Stiles replies. “I’m also not a priority. Moon’s coming up. What do we do now?”

Molly reaches for him and he pushes to his feet, taking her before he sits on the bed, her face pressed in against his shoulder. She squirms, wiggling close, and he feels a faint brush of fur when she inhales his scent. Her low whimper has the edge of a growl, frustration rising.

“Yes, you are a priority.” Derek tugs gently and Molly turns to him, going into his arms. Stiles is loathe to let her go, his hand still on her back when the door nudges open and Scott and Isaac stand there.

He has to wonder how long they’ve been listening for them to move, and what they heard before. A flush rises to his cheeks, and he very carefully doesn’t look at Derek. He meets Scott’s gaze instead, and shrugs one shoulder as if it’s an answer. 

“You’re still bloody,” Derek points out, handing Molly to Isaac, where she burrows in close to his neck. “If you’re in pain, it’ll bother her, since she’s your pack.”

Stiles opens his mouth, then closes it again, lips pressed for a moment before says, “Pack is complicated.”

“There are priorities.” 

Scott’s words surprise Stiles, and he turns to look at him, watching as Isaac disappears with Molly in his arms. Scott shrugs. “That’s just how it is. You’ve got pack, then you’ve got…” He halts, like he doesn’t have the words for it. “Me and Isaac and Allison. That’s before pack, before everything else. If one of them is hurt, I’m useless for anything else.”

Stiles licks his lips, still not looking at Derek. “So me and Molly…”

“You’re like that, yes.” Derek’s hand is on his shoulder, pushing him to sit when he would stand instead. “So we fix you up, and we try to get her calm, and if that doesn’t work, we look at our options.”

“There aren’t any options.”

“There are always options.” Derek drops to his knees, hands on Stiles’s ankle, gentle and careful as he touches the wounds there. “You just might not like them all.”

Derek’s touch is distracting, which might be what he intends as Stiles tries to go through all the possible options in his mind. Derek’s right, he doesn’t like most of the ones he can come up with. Not at all, particularly the ones that involve leaving this house. “What do you think is going to happen?” he asks tightly.

“I’m not going to borrow trouble until we’re done here.” Derek works quickly this time, not drawing out each touch. The antiseptic burns, but Derek keeps a solid grip on Stiles, refusing to let him pull away until the wounds are clean and bandaged. Stiles feels like he’s been bound hand and foot, the bandages a solid reminder of his imprisonment.

He doesn’t like it.

“Now what?”

“Now we go see what’s happening downstairs.”

As soon as the door opens, Stiles can hear the growls. Lydia is sitting at the top of the stairs, and she offers them both a tight smile. Derek raises his head, sniffing the air, and frowns faintly. Lydia simply points down the hall. “Danny and Allison are locked in his room. It’s best that way. Trust me.”

Growls turn to yips, and one outright howl in three voices. Stiles recognizes Scott and Isaac, even after all this time, but it’s the third that chills him. High pitched and childlike, he can still recognize the timber of someone who expects to be obeyed.

Derek’s eyes flash red; he pushes past them both, vaulting over the bannister to land below amidst the other wolves. His beta form rises quickly, claws flashing, and the growls stop, swallowed and muffled.

They are all in beta form, even Molly, and it stops Stiles in his tracks to see his daughter as a half-wolf. Fur coats the backs of her hands, and tiny claws stick out as she flexes her fingers and growls again at Derek’s arrival. “Molly!” he says sharply, but she ignores him in favor of approaching Derek, launching herself at him.

He goes down with an armful of small werewolf, rolling on the floor and twisting to keep her safe. Isaac and Scott join while Boyd rumbles a small growl on the side. Stiles thinks they are playing, but he can hear the yips, hear the fight for dominance. Hear the whine when they try to keep her calm.

Her eyes flash in the light and Scott sits back quickly. Derek points to the door. “Basement. All of you. _Now_.”

Stiles hurries down the stairs as the betas and Molly disappear. “You’re not locking her up, are you? What’s wrong?”

Derek bares his teeth. “She can’t do it here.”

“She can’t do it anywhere else, either.” There is no way Stiles is letting Molly out of his sight tonight. Not tonight, not ever, not until the Maynards are taken care of. “It’s too big of a risk.”

“If we stay here, she’s going to tear this place apart, and it’s going to be _worse_ than if she’s out.” Derek takes a step closer and Stiles refuses to give ground. “She needs to let go,” Derek growls softly. “She needs to give in to the wolf completely. And we need to give her the freedom to do that.”

“Is that how it worked when you were growing up?” Stiles plants his hands against Derek’s chest, pushing to keep him from crowding too close. “The whole Hale family went on one big happy run through the woods? Well, you didn’t have a rival pack sniffing at your tails, looking to pick you off one by one! No one was waiting to _eat_ your cubs!”

“They don’t want to eat Molly, either.”

“No, they want to take her away and then kill me so they have the only Weaver.”

There’s a harsh cry from the basement; Stiles realizes too late just how loud his voice is, and how well his daughter can hear. Derek crowds close, pushing Stiles back with his weight and pressing him against the wall.

“Don’t talk about that now,” Derek hisses. “Tonight is about the moon, not about the Maynards. Molly is your priority, and she is _my_ priority. She is _pack_ and I will take care of her.”

“She’s my daughter,” Stiles whispers angrily. “And I won’t give her to them, but if it comes down to her or me—”

He doesn’t manage to finish the sentence, Derek’s mouth closing over his, swiftly silencing him. It starts out angry, Derek’s teeth sharp and catching at Stiles’s lower lip until he gasps and Derek eases it. Stiles curls his fingers in Derek’s shirt, pushing and pulling as Derek leans into him, holding on.

When Derek finally leans back, he is human, the wolf slipped from his eyes. Stiles blinks. “What the hell was that?”

“A kiss,” Derek deadpans.

Lydia coughs at the top of the stairs, and Stiles shakes his head. “A badly timed one, designed to shut me up. I’m still not going to let you take—” He manages to get his hand between them, fingers pressed against Derek’s face, pushing back. “Don’t. Not again. Not now.”

“I’m taking Molly out to run,” Derek says quietly. “Boyd, Isaac, Scott, me… we’ll all be with her. And we’re not going to let anything happen to our cub. But I can _not_ keep her safe in here. At some point, it will come down to a contest between her instincts and your wards, and we can’t be sure we’ll be able to keep her from running. It needs to be under our control.”

Derek still leans into him, his full weight against Stiles, one hand curled at the nape of his neck to anchor them together. Stiles couldn’t move if he wanted to, and the way it is making him feel is complicated. He closes his eyes, drifting for a moment in the weave, the way it tangles around them both.

A throat clears somewhere above them.

“Tick tock,” Lydia offers.

“She’ll be fine,” Derek says quietly. “I promise.”

Stiles can feel the weight of those words around him, can feel the thump of Derek’s heart under his hand. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like letting Molly be vulnerable now, but he can’t see any other way around it. “Is this what you did when you were little? Run with the pack?”

“I was older,” Derek admits. “But I grew up knowing what the moon felt like. There was never a time that it didn’t call to me, and I learned restraint early on. She’s learning it now, and she has to leap in and take all of it at once. Every experience. And she’s so young that I can’t try to explain it to her. She doesn’t understand limits, and she will push every one of them she finds. Her lack of control is upsetting the others; did you see the pull she has for Scott and Isaac? She wants to play, and she wants wolves to play with. We need to make sure _we_ are in charge of the situation, not her.”

Stiles smiles wryly. “And to think I was worried I was going to need to put her in a cage.”

“Does it surprise you that she has a strong personality?”

He laughs. “No, not really. Her mother did, too.”

Derek just looks at him. “So does her father.”

Stiles can’t read the look in Derek’s eyes, can’t decide exactly what he’s saying other than an unexpected compliment. “That’s one way of saying _stubborn_ ,” he says lightly. “Molly, come upstairs.”

He hears the thump against the basement door before it opens, Molly rushing in to wrap around his legs, claws sharp and pricking against his skin even through his jeans. He has to let go of Derek, trusts Derek to let him go in return as Stiles sinks down to crouch there, putting his hands on Molly’s shoulders. He can see the wolf in her, her eyes shining, fur across the bridge of her nose. “Listen to me, baby.”

She whines, and Stiles sighs. “Baby, whatever Derek tells you, or Isaac, Scott, Boyd… any of them, whatever they say, you do. Without thinking, without arguing. Even if you don’t want to, I need you to listen to them.” This is a definite sense of deja vu. He glances up. “Derek, last time this didn’t work.”

“It’ll work,” Derek assures him. “When her wolf takes hold, I’m the alpha. They’ll all follow me, and I’ll take care of the pack. We’ll come home as soon as the moon’s influence fades.”

Molly’s eyes are wide, pupils thick and black as her gaze shifts from Stiles to Derek and back again. Her feet move against the floor, and if Stiles weren’t holding her, she’d be moving around the room. “Promise, baby.” He keeps his voice low and even. “Promise me that you’ll listen to Derek. I don’t want the bad men to get you.”

“I’ll stay with Derek,” she says quickly. She wriggles from Stiles’s hold and shifts to Derek, lifting her arms and waiting until he picks her up. “Promise,” she says.

Stiles doesn’t want to let her go, but he knows this is why they are here. _This_ is what she needs. He stands slowly, resting one hand on Derek’s shoulder while the other the other slides over Molly’s hair. He still doesn’t know if giving the weave to Allison helped, but he knows he is already tangled with Molly. And Derek. He can see how tangled their threads are now, drawn tighter together since he let himself relive that particular memory, and since this afternoon. “Be good,” he murmurs. He doesn’t look at Derek, but the words are for him as well. “Stay safe.”

Derek nods. As they head out, Scott and Isaac move past Stiles, nudging his shoulders and murmuring their own assurances that Molly will be kept safe. Boyd tilts his head, acknowledging Stiles’s concern and accepting responsibility.

Their pack seems so _small_ as they head out. But it’s what they have.

“I told you.” Lydia stands on the step, letting it give her the height to look Stiles in the eye, her mouth quirked into a smirk. “You _do_ have a thing for redheaded women. But when it comes to men, you prefer them scruffy, growly, and rough.”

Stiles can’t quite stay still under her regard, long fingers rubbing against his forehead as he wrinkles his nose and tries not to smile. “About that…”

“You don’t need to explain.” Her head tilts slightly. “Just don’t go away again. You tried to unweave yourself before, didn’t you? And it nearly broke us. It nearly broke _him_.”

Stiles stares at the door. “I didn’t think he’d even notice…”

“Ask Danny what it was like.” Lydia leans over the railing, dropping a kiss on his cheek. “You should try to get some rest. You’ll need to take care of someone when they get back.”

“Rest, right.” Stiles doesn’t think sleep is an option, but maybe he can watch bad movies on Syfy. Anything to distract himself from worrying about Molly.

And Derek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! I've reached the point in this story where I want to sit down and power through the writing the rest of it so I can get to the end and also so I can share it more quickly. The problem with this is that there is probably somewhere between 20k and 40k left to write. Urgh. Plus two big bangs that are due end of September. What I really need are more days like yesterday, where I can just write write write.
> 
> Anyway. Full moon! It's finally here, along with a few other things along the way. Thank you all for being here too! I noticed a lot of new readers coming in this week which is AWESOME. I love you all, new and old, and your comments continue to be some of the best things I see in a day. *blows kisses* The next chapter will post on Sunday, July 7th. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Oh, and if you happened to come in from tumblr (either drawn in as a new reader, or as someone who's been following along), I'm trying a new way of posting notifications there. Let me know if it's better?


	27. Chapter 27

Stiles does actually intend to _try_ to sleep, although first he has to clean up the mess Molly made earlier in their room when she hunted for the band-aids. He stands there in the middle of the room, a shirt clutched in his hand, looking at the duffle on the floor. It seems wrong to repack the duffle, like it means he’s planning to leave. But at the same time, this is Lydia’s room, so he can’t just start putting things away in the drawers and closets. At the moment he is still an interloper, but he’s starting to feel uncomfortable acting like he’s just visiting.

His gaze drifts to the door; he could just take his things upstairs into… no. Just… no. The pull towards Derek is harder, sharper, deeper than it was when he walked back into this house a few days ago. Weaving the strands back together has recreated something that was already happening five years ago, but he knows they aren’t ready to deal with it yet. Stiles, at least, is still trying to figure it out. And he has Molly to consider, who lost her mom all too recently… His hand clenches tightly, crumpling the shirt.

There really isn’t anything to do but fold it all and shove half of it back in the duffle, and pile the rest on top of Lydia’s bureau. He’ll figure out a better solution on another night, when he can discuss it with Derek. Some kind of longer short term plan, since any long term plans will take time to settle in.

Like fixing up the attic. Finishing it into a brand new space and becoming a part of the household permanently. Stiles would be lying if he said he didn’t like the idea, now that he’s had time to let it sink into his subconscious.

He pulls on his sleep pants and a clean t-shirt, but he’s not tired. He feels something under his skin, a prickling itch, and he wonders if that’s Molly in the weave, if he’s that attuned to her that he can feel her reaction to the moon. Stiles knows he’s not going to sleep until she’s back, no matter how much he knows he should, so he pads on bare feet to the kitchen. He’s still a young enough guy that when all else fails, snacking is a viable option.

“Can’t sleep?” Danny nudges a mug across the kitchen table when Stiles walks in, and he smells rich chocolate. Danny has his own mug cradled in his hands, steam rising.

“Yeah.” Stiles looks at the plate of graham crackers and animal crackers. “Getting ready for Molly to come back hungry?” He shakes his head. “When did you become pack mom?” There’s a moment’s frustration, because that’s _his_ kid that Danny is planning for.

Danny laughs. “Actually, the animal crackers are for Isaac. The coffee pot will start up in a bit; he likes half coffee, half cocoa and he drowns his animal crackers in it and eats them with a spoon.”

“That sounds… violent and cute all at once.”

“Have you met Isaac?”

Stiles laughs, startled at the image because yeah, he can imagine it. He can imagine it with a bright clarity, the way Scott tosses the animal crackers in and Isaac watches them swim, and the two heads leaning close together…

“You all right?”

Stiles blinks and the image fades, bright lines shining in the haze of his vision. “I, um… that was new.” He sinks into the chair opposite Danny and reaches for a graham cracker, dunking it idly into the cocoa and watching it go soft. “I need to play with it more, but there might be a way to use the weave to read the memories embedded in a place, rather than just the inherited memories I’ve been getting from my mom. Either that or my imagination is disturbingly clear at the moment.”

“You’re worried.” Danny still has both hands cradled on the mug and he lifts it carefully, blowing on it before taking a sip of the hot liquid. “You and Derek…”

Stiles pulls the graham cracker out, lifting it and biting off the soft part before it falls. “Me and Derek _what_?”

Danny takes another gulp of the cocoa, then pushes it aside. “You’re getting tangled up together again.”

It seems strange to be talking to _Danny_ about this, but Lydia was already pushing at it earlier, and Stiles is so tired after the last few days that he doesn’t have any fight left in him. “Tangled up is a good way to put it. I… I cut a bunch of cords when I left. Really cut them, wove myself out of Beacon Hills as much as I could. But now that I’m back, those lines are back too, and they’re getting thicker. Tighter.”

“Why did you do that to him?”

Stiles gives him a look. “Why did I do what to him? Leave? Don’t you think that’s between him and me at this point?”

Danny smiles slightly, dimples crinkling even though it’s not a happy look. “I think the rest of us stayed here and picked up the pieces while you were gone, Stiles. So yeah, part of it is definitely between you and him, but we’re the ones who kept him together when he was a complete wreck. At first the pack wouldn’t see it happening, then none of them were able to go near him when he was at his worst. Except me.”

“So you—” Stiles can’t finish the sentence because he has a sudden _feeling_ that twists in his gut and he doesn’t like where his mind is taking him. That’s something he doesn’t want to touch, doesn’t want to find in the weave around this house. His tongue darts out, licking his lips as he turns away, fingers rubbing at his cheek.

But he can’t resist peeking, just once. He slips into the weave and reaches out, looking at the strands in the house, around Danny, around himself. He tries to see how Danny fits into it, how his threads merge with Derek’s compared to how Stiles’s weave into that light. He can’t see it perfectly, not from this distance, but he can get an idea of how many threads there are, how close they are joined.

It’s not the same, and that lets Stiles relax.

As he blinks into the light of the kitchen again, Danny is standing, putting dishes in the sink. “Come on,” Danny directs. “Living room. The couch will be more comfortable for waiting, and besides…”

“Pack loves a puppy pile, even if it’s only two.” Stiles quirks a smile. “So, is that why you acted like you hated me when I got here?”

Danny waits until they are settled on the sofa, Stiles turned to face him, feet stretched out over Danny’s knees. “Derek was wrecked,” he says quietly. “I don’t think you really get just how bad it was. We didn’t have anything to fight, so he fought himself instead. The pack fell apart that summer, and when we settled into our new pattern, pieces were missing.”

“Me and Allison.” Stiles idly sifts through the threads, identifying people and how they fit into the house, seeing the tangled webs that have sprung up over the years.

“You were gone before you left.”

Stiles is surprised at the tone of Danny’s voice. “I was right here,” he protests. “I was in this house, alone, and that wasn’t my fault. I woke up alone and I wasn’t surprised that it stayed that way.”

His brow furrows, because there is a piece missing. Stiles knows what his story was for that summer, but he doesn’t know Derek’s, or anyone else’s for that matter, and he wonders if he fucked things up and doesn’t remember it. He worries at a fingernail, because the more he thinks it, the more he suspects it was something like that. That there are pieces missing, cords cut that haven’t come back. Things that might as well never have happened.

“It started with a dream,” Stiles says slowly. “Not the thing with Derek… that was the night my dad died, and it was probably coming before then, but I… I honestly can’t remember. Which might be my own fault. But the other thing—weaving—it happened not all that long after dad died. I was stressed, we were in the middle of finals and graduation was coming up, and we were already acting pretty fractured. Scott was so into Allison then, because he knew she was going away. Lydia was distracting herself with school work, and Boyd had that job. And I was grieving.” He can admit that he messed things up because of that. He drew into himself for a while, because he didn’t know how to deal with it.

“I was up late studying, and I passed out at my desk. Nothing new,” he shrugs, because it happened before, it happened after, and it would probably still happen if he didn’t have Molly to consider. “Then I was in a dream in New York and it took me a few minutes to realize I was my mom. She was walking down the streets, and I knew she’d just left Derek and Laura there, and that she was trying to keep them safe by writing them out of Beacon Hills. Because Hales and Weavers couldn’t both be in Beacon Hills at the same time.”

He feels Danny go stiff, can see the wary look in his eyes. “Did she have anything to do with—”

“Kate? No. God, no.” Stiles raises his hands; they flail out in protest. “No, no, the Argents are their own problem and they were gone then and she was glad. From what I’ve learned since then, she’d been told by _her_ father that the Hales and the Argents were trouble. At that point, she thought maybe the conflict between Hales and Weavers had something to do with why everything went wrong with the Argents, like the weave made Kate crazy. The big thing I learned then was that Mom got Derek and Laura out of town. She made sure they survived the fire and she got them away and she tried to cut the cords so hard that they wouldn’t come back. To make them and Beacon Hills safe.”

“So she rewrote history.” Danny tilts his head. “Like you not remembering that thumb drive.”

“Yes.” Stiles jabs a finger at him. “Exactly. I can’t even tell you the number of times I got back to my house and I couldn’t remember where I’d been. I had an overnight bag with me, and Cass knew I’d planned to be away for a while, but whatever I did, I must have cut it out. I always assumed I had a good reason for it.”

“Like when your mom did that to Derek and Laura. And you left here.” Danny leans over the edge of the couch and picks up the remote, aiming it at the TV and muting it as soon as it comes on. “But you didn’t write yourself out completely.”

“I tried,” Stiles admits. “When I got to college, I _tried_. I got a new phone and a new number, and I deleted all my social sites. I stopped talking to everyone. I tried to just not exist for anyone here because I was trying to fix things. I knew my mom didn’t get it right, and I thought maybe she’d had it the wrong way around. I thought the Hales were the ones who were integral to Beacon Hills, since even though she wrote them out, they came _back_. And that’s how it works. Some threads can’t be broken; they’re strong enough that they’ll regrow. So if getting the Hales out wasn’t the answer, obviously I had to get the last Weaver out. Me.”

“But why?” Danny shakes his head. “I don’t get that part, Stiles. We were finally safe by the time you figured out what was going on. There was no trouble, there was no trauma. We had nothing to fight, so there was nothing to save him from.”

Stiles smiles ruefully, because he hears that subtle wording; Danny knows he was protecting Derek, not just the pack. “Because you never saw it. I don’t even remember it, I just know vaguely about it from the notes I left myself. I kept a small trail in the beginning, because I was confusing myself. So every time I wrote something out, I told myself that it happened, but not what it was, so it couldn’t regrow. I started remembering little things my mom had said, like just before she died, she told me that some cords are so strong that no matter how many times you cut them, they’ll pull you back in. That the weave sometimes repairs itself because that’s what it needs to do. I didn’t understand what she was saying then, but when I thought about it later, it made complete sense.”

Danny flips through the channels, late night movies silently playing on the big screen TV. “Is that what’s happening now?”

“They’re repairing themselves faster than I can do it,” Stiles admits. “I’ve done some of it. But there are some things that just happened. It’s like the weave was waiting for me to come back so it could knit me right in.”

“Are you going to tell Derek about your mom and New York?”

It is such a logical question that Stiles can’t think why he didn’t think of it before. His eyes go slightly wide, before they narrow again, thoughtful. “I… I think I did. I think I did once, and I think I cut it out. Fuck, Danny.” His head falls back, hands sifting through his hair, shaking out tangled strands of weave. “I don’t even know what I have and haven’t done. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know how I’m doing it, and I keep thinking it should be easy to just cut the Maynards out but I can’t. They are tied to me so strongly that I can’t manage to cut that cord.”

“Why?”

Again, it’s such a simple, logical question that it stymies Stiles. “I don’t know,” he admits. “No wait…” His mouth opens, then closes, and he has to pick his words carefully because the last thing he wants right now is to send himself down into the memory. “So. My mom took Derek and Laura to New York, and right after she got back, she had cancer, and she died. It all happened fast, too fast to really understand. But I’ve seen… there are things that I don’t want to remember, but I can’t make it not happen. Someone found her then. Someone did something to her, and she just… I don’t know if she did too much, exhausted herself so much that she couldn’t come back, or if she was changed. But she died after that.”

Someone pushes into the sofa on the other side of Stiles, wedged in between him and the edge. He lifts one arm automatically, tucking Lydia under it, her head leaning against him. Allison drops into the space between him and Danny, waiting for Stiles to stretch his legs back out over both of them.

“Don’t let us stop you,” Lydia says. “I heard voices, and Allison heard me.”

“We are either talking about personal lives or supernatural shit, or both,” Stiles says. “How much did you hear?”

She kisses his cheek. “Enough. You are oblivious when you get going.”

Stiles decides it has to be enough because he really doesn’t feel like repeating himself, and keeps going. “What if what caught her was the Maynards? What if they were after a Weaver even then? They gave me a choice: Molly or me, and I wonder if they gave her that same choice. Because if only one of us could survive, I’d choose Molly every time.”

Allison hisses softly, and Lydia’s arm goes around him tightly. “That is _not_ going to happen, Stiles.”

“Agreed,” Danny adds. “But it sounds reasonable. Does that mean that the Maynards and Kate were linked, or did they find your mom when she took the Hales east?”

“I’d bet the latter, since that’s their territory,” Stiles muses. “But we might never know for sure. She… she cut everything off when she died. She told me she was doing it, and I didn’t understand, because she didn’t leave me with anything. I guess she was trying to protect me.”

“So you’re saying that self-sacrificial idiocy is inherited?” Lydia’s tone teases him. “What have we learned, Stiles?”

“I need my pack,” he admits. “I can’t save you by leaving you. Any of you.”

“And we need you, too,” Allison tells him, ruffling his hair. “Some of us more than others.”

“We’re going to make sure both you and Molly are safe,” Lydia tells him firmly.

Stiles closes his eyes, reaching into the threads around him, letting them wrap more tightly around all four humans on the couch. He tugs experimentally at each of them, checking the feel of it and wondering if he could recognize who was who without seeing, and pretty sure he can. Something teases at the corner of his mind when he touches the cord between himself and Danny and he blinks.

“Hey, if I had a thumb drive with your stuff on it, you should probably look at my laptop,” he says. “Because I may not remember ever seeing you in the last few years, but it’s obvious we’ve interacted.”

“Bring it up to my room and drop it off, if you can bear to be without it,” Danny tells him.

Stiles rolls his eyes, although he has to admit, the idea of letting his laptop go isn’t easy. He places more importance on it than makes sense consciously, and he suspects this might be why. “I’ll do that,” he agrees.

“Close your eyes.” Lydia draws her fingers down from his eyebrows across his nose. “Nap. None of us are going anywhere.”

Stiles couldn’t move if he tried, tangled as he is with the others there. He doesn’t really expect to sleep, not until Molly comes home, but he closes his eyes to try. No matter what, he feels better with his pack close around him. He has missed this, over the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely people! For those lucky enough to have had a long weekend, I hope it has been a wonderful one. I am sad to have to go back to work tomorrow, but am hoping to do all the writing and baking today before that. So many words needed!
> 
> Here we finally have a conversation between Danny and Stiles. A _real_ conversation, and I hope it does not disappoint. Things are continuing to roll forward and become more entangled. Yay! Also, we cross the 50k mark with this chapter, so I can officially refer to this as my TW novel! *grins*
> 
> The next chapter will post on Sunday, July 14th. Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments and for supporting me along the way. *blows kisses* You are all amazing.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I have modified werewolf canon to fit my needs.

The door slams open and Stiles flails awake, sliding off the couch and onto the floor to escape the tangled pile of humans on the couch (and keep from hitting any of them). He blinks, eyes adjusting slowly as the pack spills in through the door with a rush of the scent of fresh air. Scott and Isaac are tangled up somehow, laughing as they lean in to pull Allison from the couch, nuzzling her hair as she snuggles in close to both of them. Boyd murmurs something and disappears through the door to the basement.

Derek comes in last, a wolf pup in his arms.

_A wolf pup in his arms._

“Molly?” Stiles tries not to squeak but in his exhaustion, he fails miserably. He pushes himself to his feet, stumbling towards Derek, arms out and waiting as the pup is spilled into his hold. She is asleep, snuffling slightly with every breath, furred tummy rising and falling.

“She’s exhausted,” Derek says quietly, his hand resting on Stiles’s arm.

“She’s an alpha.” Scott turns away from Isaac and Allison, hands going wide. “Dude, your daughter’s an _alpha_.”

“I’m not surprised, with the way she stands up to Derek.” Lydia raises one eyebrow, stretching as she stands. “And now that everyone’s back safe, I am going to bed. I expect to not be disturbed until noon tomorrow, and that goes for both my roommate,” she pins Danny with a look, “and our neighbors.” The look she gives Allison and her boys is even darker. “While I do understand the effect of the full moon, there is a _reason_ gags were invented. Please remember.”

Scott blushes while Allison laughs, and Isaac’s smirk is purely predatory. He bends to lift Allison, who squeaks slightly before she’s settled, cradled, against Isaac’s chest. They head up the stairs after Lydia and Danny, but Scott lingers.

“Go.” Stiles waves his fingers. “Just, go and… no, never mind, I am not going to say it, and I am not going to think about it, and honestly, I’m with Lydia, I’d rather not hear it, too. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Yes, they are always like that,” Derek says quietly while Scott takes the stairs two at a time, calling out for Isaac to wait for him. “Slightly less noisy when Allison isn’t with them, but yes. Always.”

“And you haven’t soundproofed their room yet?” Stiles glances at the ceiling, and it occurs to him _where_ they are right now and he winces. “Oh, God, they are doing that in my dad’s room. They are having loud threesome werewolf and human sex in the room where my dad used to sleep. That is so _wrong_.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth tilts up into a faint smirk. “Would you rather they were in your room?”

There are a number of things wrong with that, the way Stiles’s mind skitters from the idea of his best friend banging his _two_ partners in Stiles’s old room to the idea that if that were true, then _Derek_ would be in his father’s old room and well that… Stiles shakes his head. “No, no, really, that’s fine the way it is.” He pulls in a deep breath and huffs out a sigh. “So um.” He looks down at the furry bundle in his arms. He can see fur fading, little hints of pink starting to peek through. “This.”

“She’s an alpha, and she took to her alpha form with no problem. She’s going to be strong, Stiles.” Derek’s fingers touch Molly’s head lightly, scritching behind her ears. “She’ll come out of it soon, and you might want to get her tucked into bed then. I’ve got her clothes in the car; I couldn’t dress her while she was still a wolf.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Have you ever tried to strap a sleeping wolf into a car seat? It’s something I hope I won’t have to repeat.”

“Will she get more control over shifting back and forth?” Stiles walks slowly down the hall towards his room, nudging open the door with his toe and nodding his thanks when Derek pulls it open for him. “Um, hold that thought. I think I’m getting her back and I need to get her settled in her nightgown before I have a naked squirming kid.” He pushes the door closed again before Derek can protest, although he hears the startled grumble in response.

Stiles lays Molly on the bed, and by the time he turns back she is on her stomach, fully human again and asleep. It is never easy to dress a sleeping child, but he manages to tug the nightgown over her head and fold her arms into the sleeves before she wakes up. She blinks at him sleepily. “Hi, Daddy. We had fun running. Things smelled different with my puppy nose. And I could hear everything. But things looked funny.”

“That’s because wolves have different eyes that humans do,” Stiles murmurs, handing her underwear and letting her finish dressing herself. “Something about cones and rods.”

“I don’t have any cones or rods in my eyes.” Molly rubs at those eyes sleepily. “Can I run again tomorrow?”

Stiles smooths her hair down—it is a tangled mess that will be a nightmare when it’s time to brush it out. “Not unless you really, really have to. We still need to stay safe, baby.”

“Mm-hmm.” She burrows under the covers, nuzzling into the pillow with a happy sigh. “Okay, Daddy. But I liked it lots. It smells good in the woods when everyone’s with me. Even if it’s burnt. But I don’t like the men.”

Stiles goes still, cold settling into his gut, and he hears the soft growl from the hallway. He isn’t surprised when the door opens, but he doesn’t turn to look at Derek. Instead he sits on the edge of the bed, fingers against his daughter’s back. “What men?”

She laughs. “Silly Daddy. The men I told you about. The old men. This time they were talking about a book. One of them said he lost it, but I know where it is.”

“Stiles—”

He cuts Derek off with a sharp slice of his hand through the air. “What do you mean, baby?” he asks softly. “Where is the book?”

“In one of the boxes in the attic. I saw it when we were looking for your spinning wheel. Daddy, can you teach me how to spin the wheel?” Molly’s voice drifts, half muffled from the pillow, and her words end with a little snuffle as she burrows deeper.

“Maybe when you’re rested.” Stiles bends to brush a kiss atop her head. “You sleep now, baby. You can dream about running.”

“I like being a wolf.” The words slip out on an exhalation, and by the time she inhales, she’s asleep. Stiles watches her for a moment longer before he slowly stands and steps back from the bed.

When he turns, Derek raises one eyebrow. Stiles shakes his head—he doesn’t want to talk about this here, even if Molly _is_ asleep. He pushes against Derek’s chest, pushing him out of the room and tugging the door closed with a soft thunk. Stiles doesn’t stop there, still nudging, directing Derek down the hallway and herding him into the kitchen.

Stiles is beginning to think his life is going to begin and end in this kitchen with all the conversations taking place here.

“Do I still smell like them?” It’s not what he means to say, but the memory of Derek inhaling him that first morning back is suddenly bright and visceral. Both of Derek’s eyebrows go up sharply.

“Are you asking me to sniff you?”

Stiles can’t dignify that with an answer, and he fights against the flush he’s sure is rising under his skin. But he somehow manages to stand completely still as Derek slowly tugs his collar away from his neck and buries his nose in the crook of Stiles’s neck, close to where the healing bite is. He feels the warmth of an exhalation, hears the rough inhale after, feels the mouth against his skin and the flick of a tongue.

Oh, _fuck_ , that feels good.

He fights for composure. “Well?”

Derek rubs his cheek against Stiles’s neck, his scruff rough, before pulling back. “You smell more like our pack than them,” he says, voice hoarse. “But I can still smell them. It’s beneath your skin.”

“I’m not infected,” Stiles tells him. “I checked.” But maybe he’ll need to check again. Later. With the spinning wheel as an energy back up and after a hearty pancake breakfast.

“It’s not like that. It’s like…” Derek’s voice trails off. “I can’t explain it. Maybe it’s something to do with Molly. Or maybe that Corann witch did something to you when she took you.”

That’s not something Stiles likes to think about. “She tried to smother me,” he says dryly. “The stuff of nightmares, which I’m sure I’ll be having as soon as I crawl into bed.” He looks around, seeking a distraction. The things for hot chocolate are still out, but Stiles doesn’t want to heat up water and expend that much effort. “Damn.” He rubs the heel of his hand against his eyes. “I just need to get some sleep before she’s awake again. But I need you to tell me what’s going on first. Why’s Molly an alpha?”

“Not a question I can answer.” Derek puts one arm around Stiles’s waist, pulling him to lean back against the counter and sideways against Derek himself. It’s solid and comfortable and Stiles is exhausted enough that he lets Derek hold him up. “She reminds me of Laura, who was always an alpha. Even when we were small. I used to get jealous because she could become a wolf and I couldn’t. Then I just liked to race her.” He grins. “Molly had races with Scott and Isaac. I don’t think they’ll ever grow up.” He flicks a glance towards the ceiling.

Stiles has a feeling he knows what Derek’s thinking: that Scott, Isaac and Allison are the closest the pack has to anyone who is mated. They’ve been whatever they are for years now, from what he understands, and he wonders if his best friend has ever thought about kids. Not that he has to. They’re really all still so young, which isn’t something Stiles will ever voice out loud. He doesn’t regret Molly, not one moment of her tiny life.

But sometimes he misses his own lost childhood. It wandered off when he was sixteen and it never did come back.

“Don’t go in the attic alone.” Derek’s voice drags Stiles back to the present conversation.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Lying.” Derek gives him a look. “I can hear it, remember? Rest tonight, and we’ll go up after breakfast.”

Stiles manages to get one hand behind his back, his fingers crossed tightly just in case. “All I want to do right now is sleep, Derek. I am going to crawl into bed with that tiny furnace, and she is probably going to kick me while she dreams about running, and I am going to wake up in the morning with bruises and re-evaluate everything then. But right now… I dozed on the sofa, but it doesn’t really count. I need sleep. _You_ need sleep. I’m guessing you didn’t sleep much last night.”

“You’re right.” Derek’s expression closes off then, which is fine with Stiles. This isn’t the time for a heart to heart about things.

“So unless you’re about to tell me a bedtime story—” Stiles laughs when Derek lifts one eyebrow. “About being a kid,” he suggests. “About running around like a crazy pup when you weren’t trying to be the big bad wolf. Maybe about a time when Laura was driving you nuts and Peter was still sane.”

Derek’s hand curls around the back of Stiles’s skull, fingers slipping through his hair. When Stiles closes his eyes and leans into the touch, he can see how Derek’s hand tangles with the weave, and he pokes at it, but nothing tilts, nothing slips out of line. The light around Derek intermingles perfectly with everything that Stiles is.

Whatever it is that was broken between the Hales and Weavers isn’t broken between them. And that’s something he’ll have to untangle at some point, tease apart the threads to understand them.

“Tomorrow,” he murmurs, pulling away slowly. “Right now, I need to sleep.”

He pads off to the bedroom, leaving Derek behind in the kitchen. It’s not easy, but he doesn’t want Molly to wake up alone, and he doesn’t want to just fall over where he’s standing.

Everything else will have to wait until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Yes. Molly. I have messed with what we know for certain of werewolf canon and I do not regret it one bit.
> 
> Happy Sunday! I will update again on Sunday, July 21st. One of these days I will know for certain how long this will be, and will get to put a final chapter count in so you guys will know too, but not quite yet. In the meantime, thank you all for being here, for telling your friends, and for your wonderful comments!! Your feedback is amazing, and I appreciate it so much. See you next Sunday!


	29. Chapter 29

Molly wakes before Stiles, squirming and stealing the covers as she tries to hide from the light. By the time she is settled and sliding back into sleep, he is wide awake. He moves carefully, trying not to disturb her as he slips from the bed. He drops a light kiss on her forehead, and murmurs that he isn’t going anywhere outside of the house.

He hears a soft murmur of, “Go ‘way. Wanna sleep, Daddy.” He laughs softly and leaves the room, still wearing nothing but his pajama bottoms.

There are no voices in the house yet, and a glance at the clock shows it to only be a little after nine. Still far too early for the pack to be awake after a full moon, but Molly has guaranteed that Stiles, at least, is done sleeping. He has options, he supposes. There’s the sofa, or coffee and breakfast.

Or there’s the attic.

Which he did promise not to go into alone, but Derek is still sleeping. And while Stiles could wake him up, he has a feeling that might have other possible repercussions, so it’s probably simplest to let sleeping werewolves lie for the moment.

He isn’t a complete idiot, though, and he has learned a few things over the last few days. Stiles goes through the cabinets until he finds a box of granola bars. He tucks one bar into his pocket and unwraps another, biting off a large chunk. It’s not his favorite breakfast, but at least it’s sugary and portable. Anything more complicated will have to wait until later.

Stiles climbs into the attic as carefully as he can. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for, but he does know that it should shine if it’s hidden, either by being buried in bright weave, or by the absence that it has left behind. He works carefully to gather up every box of books he can find still up there, then sits cross-legged in front of them, hands light on his knees. He opens his senses and starts sifting through the book, touching the weave with every movement.

He finds it buried under a pile of tattered old romance novels. He almost misses it, but there is a space missing, a nothing that is almost something with bright threads that are starting to regrow. As soon as he touches it, the threads race up his arm, tangling around him and twisting into his chest to take his breath away. Stiles gasps, and clings to the book, pulling it close and holding it against his bare chest as his eyes close.

He doesn’t _try_ to summon the memory, he simply drops into it, like a boulder plunging into a pond, sinking deeply and quickly.

Stiles is one of three boys in this very attic, the book open between them as they sit. He holds a pen knife in his hand, and each of the boys has their left hand out, palm up. “You first, Gerry,” Stiles says in an unfamiliar voice, just young enough that it hasn’t changed yet. “Then Adam, then me.” He gives the boy to his left a look. “I’m going to have to cut deep enough that it doesn’t heal right away, Adam.”

The boy nods, dark hair slightly long, eyes a bright blue. “It’s all right, Sam. Go as deep as you need, I’ll be fine before I go home. Mom will never know.”

“It doesn’t matter if she does.” The third boy has a bit of gravel in his voice despite the youth, and Stiles’s mind superimposes it over another voice, in another time. He blinks, because yes, he’s sure of it. Gerry is Gerard Argent, perhaps twelve years old and sitting in the Weaver attic. Gerry winces as Sam’s knife bites into his skin, blood dripping slowly from the wound. “We’re binding ourselves even more. Our families already have an alliance. This just cements it.”

“Exactly.” Sam nods emphatically as he reaches for Adam. The knife bites deeper this time, sharp and wide across Adam’s palm. The edges turn pink almost immediately, and Adam spreads his fingers, trying to keep the edges from knitting together.

As promised, Sam does his own hand last. He reaches for the other boys, and they tangle their hands together, palm to palm, blood to blood. Stiles watches the Weave come into focus, wrapped around them. “With blood I bind thee,” Sam says solemnly.

“With strength I protect thee,” Adam responds.

“With heart I hunt thy enemies,” Gerry adds.

Sam hisses as the weave tightens. He reaches out with his free hand, twisting the threads in the air. “And with thread we come together, bound for life,” he whispers. “Quick now, on the page.”

The three press their hands down, the imprint on the blank paper a mess of blood and fingerprints. Stiles feels the air ease as they do so, feels the weave settle in around them, solid and pulsing and… happy.

Comfortable.

Sam sits back, grinning. “That’s our bond, just like our mothers and our fathers. I promise, no matter what, I’ll always be there for you. Weavers, Hales, and Argents.”

“Weavers, Hales, and Argents,” the other two echo.

The memory dissolves abruptly, leaving Stiles sitting on the cold floor, the book open in front of him. He doesn’t remember opening it, but he must have while he was lost in the memory. The page is familiar, the prints familiar, the bright red of fresh blood faded to a deep, dark rust over time. He touches each handprint, remembering which belonged to which: Sam Weaver, Gerard Argent, and Adam Hale. There is not much weave left here now, but if he picks at the page, he can find the faint hint of frayed edges where it was cut out and purposefully forgotten.

Something happened that made Sam Weaver want to forget. It had to be Sam, or possibly _his_ parents or grandparents. Someone had to weave the book out and break the alliance that their grandparents made.

Holy fuck. Hales, Weavers, and Argents… they were one pack once. They were the supernatural element of Beacon Hills, all working together, before Gerard went bugfuck nuts. Before Kate burned the Hale house and family down. Before… Stiles reaches for the thread of a memory, a thin strand that is barely fixed in his mind. Before his Uncle Joseph didn’t exist.

He remembers the mention his mother made, the quick little aside and the image of her mother heavily pregnant with a baby brother. A brother that Stiles never heard of, that may as well have never been.

Something happened, and Stiles clings to that as a possible nexus of _when_ , even if it doesn’t tell him exactly what or why, not to mention how the Maynards are involved.

They couldn’t have been here, not back then, not when their grandfathers were still pre-teens and playing with blood magic that they couldn’t have fully understood.

Fuck. Stiles’s head is spinning with information and theories, and there is a part of him that is screaming at the danger of even thinking this. He recognizes the instinct, the thing that makes him want to pack Molly up and run. He has been here before, even if he doesn’t remember it consciously, and that makes him look back at the book to check: no, this isn’t his handiwork. He didn’t cut these cords. As familiar as this moment is, he hasn’t learned _this_ before.

He is going to need his laptop, or maybe just a notebook to start taking notes while Danny ferrets out what information might be buried on his machine (or out there on the internet—Stiles knows himself well enough to suspect that if he’s been using Danny as a resource, that information could be just about anywhere). But getting one of those would require climbing down out of the attic and possibly disturbing a werewolf or three, which he doesn’t want to do.

So he’ll just read for now, take in what information he can, and take notes later. They have some time, and there may well be useful information in this.

Wait. Molly saw _old_ men arguing. Admittedly, she might think thirty is old, but old generally implies white hair and wrinkles in Stiles’s mind. Gerard was old when they were all teenagers, but things were broken long before that. Things had already been broken before Carolyn was a teenager, before her father warned her away from Peter Hale. Therefore, it is more likely that it was Sam’s father, Gerard’s father, Adam’s father… a whole generation back.

Too much information. Stiles needs to chart out things which may have already been lost to time and buried in cut cords within the weave. It feels like an impossible task.

He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Start at the beginning, go through to the end, that’s the only way to get through research. Well, that and pinging off in sixty different alternate directions, but that can wait until Danny’s awake. For now, Stiles has the book, and that should be worth reading.

He flips it closed, then carefully opens it to the first page where rust-colored writing states that the book belongs to Samuel Elijah Weaver. When Stiles touches the words, he sees flickers of images: a boy of about ten writing his name painstakingly with one fingertip, trailing droplets of blood… the three boys again, out in the woods, running and laughing, knowing there are others out there but none of that matters to them… a woman, heavily pregnant, that Stiles recognizes from his mother’s memory.

Tears by a grave that Stiles doesn’t remember, but that he feels like he should know where it is. He yanks his fingers back from the page, curling his hand tight. No death, not today. He doesn’t want to get sidetracked.

It is a journal, he quickly realizes, and quite possibly the closest to an instruction manual that he might find. The entries come sporadically throughout the years of Sam Weaver’s life, the first one beginning _My name is Samuel Elijah Weaver and I am ten years old. Mama said that I should write down everything I learn, because it is the best way to become a learned man, and Papa says it is because memory is faulty, even for a Weaver. Most especially for a Weaver, because although we can remember what anyone has known, we can also change those memories._

The journal ends abruptly, the last third of the pages still blank. The last entry is written in shaky script.

_My name is Samuel Elijah Weaver, husband to Charity and father to Carolyn. No matter what these records say, I have never had a son._

_The future will see the Hales dead._

_This is what I weave, and the past will be forgotten._

Stiles shakes as he reads those final words, feels them shiver through him with truth. There are slivers of threads here, tiny hints of what might have once been. Small bindings that want to reach through time and reality to remake themselves; he doesn’t know what he might release, so he closes the book, wraps it tightly in a quickly woven blanket of _nothing_. When he is done, it isn’t hidden, but it feels remote and lost, and no longer gives him flickers of memory.

He needs to do this carefully.

He has no idea how to do this carefully.

But he is _afraid_ of what this book might say, of why the alliance broke, and whether it might break it again. He reaches out, wraps his fingers around the threads that surround him, and sifts through them gently. He can feel them all there. Boyd still sleeps. Scott, Isaac and Allison are inexorably lazily tangled together, a small bundle of weave that belongs together. Danny’s strength shines to Stiles, lightly touching everyone else in the house, and Lydia is a small, solid, _stable_ weave. 

Then there is Molly, who resonates as family, and Derek who simply _resonates_ , solid and bright and tangled with Stiles in ways he doesn’t think he can untangle again without breaking his own mind. He touches those last strings, tugs gently and tests them, making sure they are just as strong as they were when he walked upstairs. This is a fresh bond, but it is built on something years old, and that is healed over something broken even longer ago.

Stiles doesn’t know what to think any more about Hales and Weavers. He doesn’t know what’s up and what’s down, what’s right and what’s wrong.

But he knows what he _wants_ and that’s the best place he has to start.

He opens the book again, cautiously not touching the pages for any longer than he has to, keeping that weave separate from his own as he begins to read. He treats it as a grenade that might explode at any moment as he tries to take the information in without letting it take apart his core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My alarm goes off in the morning to remind me to take meds. This morning it woke me out of a sound sleep of sleeping in, and my first thought was "I have to post the new chapter!" You can see where my priorities lie...
> 
> Happy Sunday, all. I hope everyone is having a great weekend, and that you enjoy this latest installment. Thank you for reading and for your wonderful comments! You guys are all awesome.
> 
> The next chapter will post on Sunday, July 28th. See you then!


	30. Chapter 30

Stiles jumps up when he hears footsteps coming up into the attic. He can’t touch anything with the weave, but he’s sunk into it deeply, thinking through what he’s read, and he doesn’t have to see the person to know who it is. “Derek!” He turns, grinning, hands spread. “You won’t believe what I’ve found.”

“You weren’t supposed to go into the attic alone.” There’s a soft growl as Derek threads his way across the attic, stopping only when Stiles jumps in front of him.

“You were sleeping.” It sounded better in his head when he rationalized it earlier, rather than now, with Derek giving him that exasperated _look_. “So was Molly, and so was everyone else in the house. You needed sleep, and have you ever tried to sleep next to a small furnace that kicks? It’s not comfortable. So I figured I’d come here, find the book, and hey, I did. No, stop.”

Stiles plants his hands in the middle of Derek’s chest, pushing when Derek goes to look past him. “Don’t touch it. I don’t think it can do any damage on its own, but right now it’s like a bundle of threads waiting to explode all over us and I’m not sure if it’ll make things worse or better. But oh my God, the thing is brilliant. So many things I didn’t know. So many things I still don’t know. Derek. This is unbelievable.”

“So, it’s dangerous, therefore I should let you play with it?” Both eyebrows go up, and Stiles groans.

“No, that’s not it. Well, yes, that _is_ it, but I know how it works, so it’s not as dangerous to me. It tried to suck me in earlier, but I defeated it. Not before I saw the incredibly disturbing image of my grandfather forming a blood bond with Gerard Argent, though.” He has Derek’s complete attention at that, and Stiles nods once, sharp and quick. “Yes, that, exactly. And your grandfather as well. This, this whole thing that you’ve built with the pack and Allison and me, and how crazy our pack seems, that’s how it used to be. Just like the Maynards with the Hunters and the Coranns. It all fits together, and makes the pack stronger. But it was broken, back when my mom was small. Definitely before she dated Peter. I don’t know, maybe she was drawn to Peter. Maybe Kate was drawn to you. Maybe this is all the threads trying to rebuild themselves because that’s how the pack is meant to be.”

He can’t miss the flinch when Kate’s name comes up, and Stiles reaches out instinctively, bridging the distance between himself and Derek, tangling their fingers. He stops as soon as he feels that warmth, sees the surprise at the touch. His mouth opens slightly. “I mean—”

He doesn’t get to finish the statement, Derek’s mouth sealing over his, stealing his words and breath away. Whatever he meant to say flees when he tastes him, the kiss slow and deliberate, teasing Stiles’s mouth open, taking his time exploring and tasting. Stiles grips his shoulders, holding on, feeling the heat of Derek’s arm across his naked back, and he is suddenly _aware_ that he never bothered to put on anything more than sleep pants. Not that it matters, he’s plenty warm enough right now. Maybe too warm in the heat of the attic, pressed up against a werewolf.

Stiles lets his eyes close, a moan slipping free when the kiss ends. “Fuck. I mean. Oh my God.”

Fingers frame his face gently, sliding along his jaw, moving back to cradle his head. The next kiss is softer, a brush of lips on lips, a flicker of tongue to tease him, teeth scraping against his lower lip. Stiles chases him down, dragging his head up, capturing Derek’s lip to nip at it, sighing when Derek reciprocates.

This is what he gave up. This is what he walked away from, and this is what belongs in his blood. It shines between them and all around them, threads vibrating gently as they grow. Stiles steps back, both hands up, dragging in a deep breath. “Now is probably not the time,” he says quietly. It isn’t a no, just a _maybe not now_. “Molly…”

“Is downstairs having breakfast with Lydia and Danny and sorting through Trix to pick out the colors she can eat,” Derek tells him. “And telling them about dreams she had of old men and sad people wearing black. Any idea what she’s talking about?”

So much for not thinking about death today. “Weave memories.” Stiles gives him a rueful smile. “Which sort of kills the mood, doesn’t it? I don’t think it’s our grandfathers; I think it’s more likely that it’s their fathers. It’s either them or our grandfathers that broke the bond between our families. It was definitely shattered when my mother was a teenager, and already tilted badly off-balance when she was just a little girl.” Which breaks his idea that the non-existent uncle had something to do with it, although Stiles supposes that things that were already broken could have gotten worse then. “I can come up with a number of reasons why she could be seeing sad people, one of which has to do with an uncle I never had.”

Stiles bounces slightly on his toes, head still spinning with the ideas of how this can all fit together. He only stops when Derek captures his hands, holding him down. “Stop,” Derek says, both eyebrows going up. “I need you to talk to me, and it needs to be a conversation that starts at the beginning and goes through the middle and end. One that I can understand.”

“We talked about the memories before,” Stiles points out. “Molly’s a Weaver. Well, she’s a wolf, and she’s a Weaver, and I’m pretty sure that’s exactly why Maynard’s so damned interested in her since I don’t know if this sort of thing happens normally. I’m guessing there’s an instinct if you’re an adult which says to push out the infection, which is what I did for myself. And what sort of madman is normally going to bite toddler?”

His thoughts are swallowed again as Derek pulls him close, sliding mouth against mouth. Stiles squeaks, but Derek presses closer, tongue teasing at his lips until Stiles stops thinking and just opens up and lets him in. “Oh fuck,” Stiles murmurs. “You really just want me to shut up, don’t you? I mean, you want me to just stop thinking, and seriously, you do know this isn’t the time for this, right? House full of wolves, probably all listening, toddler downstairs, people likely to barge in any moment… God, don’t stop that. Okay? Just… don’t stop.”

Derek’s mouth is on his neck, on his shoulder, nosing at the remnants of the bite and Stiles swears he can feel it vibrating. The bite connects straight through his lungs to his gut, then sends spikes of warmth lower than that and isn’t it handy that sleep pants are loose fitting?

Toddler. Toddler _in the house_ and wide awake and what is he thinking? “Can’t. Molly,” he manages to say, but when he goes to push Derek away he ends up with a fistful of that lovely hair, holding him close. “Oh fuck, I’ve thought about this.”

Of all things, that’s what stops Derek. He pulls back, giving Stiles a serious look. “Really.” The one word is flat, no question.

Stiles can’t stand the way his eyes have closed off. “Yeah,” he says. “I can’t say it was every day, but I couldn’t let you go, not completely. I was with Cass, and she was… she was amazing, Derek. You have no idea. You would have loved her, I’m sure, kind of like having Lydia in the pack, only not the same. I don’t even know how to describe her. But she… she’s not you. And you were under my skin so far I didn’t even know what to do with you except forget you, for your own damned good.”

“And now?”

Stiles presses his lips together thinly. “Now I have an instruction book to read, a whole lot of learning to do, and some figuring out how werewolf biology and Weaver talents intermingle. I have a pack to get rid of before they hurt _my_ pack.”

“ _We_ have a pack to get rid of.”

“We do, yes.” Stiles grins at that. “I’m not going anywhere, big guy. I’m done running, and I’m pretty sure that leaving isn’t the right answer now. In fact, I think you’ve been doing the right thing all along, with rebuilding us as a pack. Obviously the Maynards think so too, since he’s drawing strength from his pet druid. But the things in that book… my grandfather used blood with the weave. Blood magic, and I don’t know how that changes things, if it ties them together more. And I tried to give strength to Allison and to you, and I don’t know if it worked and I need to know that, because if I can spin more threads before we go into a fight, and I can protect you with a portable shield, that would be great. Imagine if they couldn’t even _touch_ you. I could try to make us invincible. Well, less damageable anyway. This book, it might hold the key to everything I can do, and to what happened before and why things broke. But I don’t have time to _study_ either, and if I go under when I do, then there’s that, and I need you guys to be watching out for Molly—”

“Stiles.”

“Mm?” He’s mostly prepared this time when the kiss comes, his entire body coming alight from the soft touch. “Is that telling me to shut up?”

“Mm.” Derek noses just behind his ear, nipping at the skin. “Shut up, Stiles,” he murmurs as he teases his throat. “You’re not going anywhere. We need to start over, you and I. And I’m starting that here. Now. No more than this, that’s all. You have Molly to consider.”

“So you _have_ been listening.” Stiles tries to catch his breath, but it’s nearly impossible as Derek manages to find a sensitive spot that tugs a groan from Stiles. “I can’t just… we can’t just… I can’t _think_ , Derek.”

He feels the snuffle and snort of a laugh, a soft warm huff of breath against his skin. “That’s the point right now. Are you calm?”

“Did you seriously just try to kiss me until I stopped babbling?”

“Did it work?”

Stiles pokes at the thoughts in his mind. He can still see the ideas lying there, bubbling away merrily on the back burner, but he feels steadier. More relaxed. “Yeah. Sort of. And we really need to revisit this discussion at a time when there aren’t a bunch of people listening in. There are things we need to talk about, Derek. Things we need to work out.”

The creak of the door seems loud, the footsteps harder than absolutely necessary, slowly coming up the steps. Stiles takes two steps back and tries to fight for control of his body (still in sleep pants, thanks, not very helpful at this exact moment). He gives a quick nod and turns away, crouching to get the book. Tongue trapped between his teeth, he manages a smile when he twists back around again, the book held lightly. “Hey, Scott.”

“Allison and Danny and Lydia will be up in a minute,” he says, gesturing at the stairs.

“You were elected to make sure the coast was clear?” Stiles can feel the flush on his neck, hears the soft huff of laughter from Derek.

Scott makes a face. “Something like that, yes. Isaac’s in the basement with Molly. She’s still pretty riled up, and he volunteered to be a puppy toy. Not that he minds. I think he’s still pretty much a child at heart, and it’s not like he had much of a childhood when he actually was one.”

“He’s going to make a good dad someday.” Stiles doesn’t think before saying it, and doesn’t think about who he’s saying it _to_ until Scott gives him a wide-eyed look. Stiles raises his hands. “Not that I’m saying _go have kids_ because I’m pretty sure Allison will have plenty to say about that, too. And you can borrow mine all you want, because trust me, I’m well aware just how much kids are a life changing decision. And… I’m going to shut up now.”

“Give me the book.” Derek reaches and Stiles hesitates. For one, the book is his only armor right now, and for two, he doesn’t know what it might do when it touches Hale skin. But he hands it over slowly, watching the weave as it settles into Derek’s hands, sighing when nothing happens. “Go get dressed,” Derek tells him.

Footsteps come up the stairs more quickly, and Lydia speaks as soon as she steps out into the attic. “Stiles, are you still in your pajamas? Derek’s right, go get dressed or you’ll be chilled.”

“I thought Danny was the pack mom,” Stiles says. He’s reluctant to leave Derek with the book, but they all have a point. “Is there a reason you came looking for me? Because I’m pretty sure it wasn’t out of curiosity—that would have kept you away. And I’m pretty sure Scott wasn’t looking for life advice.”

“Danny’s been working on your laptop all morning.” Lydia’s lips twist into a moue of irritation, her nose wrinkling. “He woke me up, which wouldn’t have been terrible, but someone _else_ started making noise about then, so sleep was impossible.” The _look_ is turned on Scott, who manages to look innocent even as he grins.

“Sorry that I’m still in your room.” Because it is Stiles’s fault that Lydia’s uncomfortable, because there’s no space for him in his own house.

“Hush. We’ll fix that soon enough. I think the neighbors are getting old.” She tilts her head, considering. “I’ll look into that later, when we’re done defeating rogue packs. Or in the quiet times. For now, Danny says to get downstairs for a discussion of what he’s found, and I say you need to get dressed so we’re not all blinded by your pale skin.” She blinks twice. “And you need to eat, don’t you? Derek, get him something for breakfast.”

She turns on her heel and disappears before Stiles can even manage a reply. Scott raises both hands. “She’s your problem,” he says quickly. “I’m going to go help Isaac with Molly. Oh, and Boyd’s gone out. He says he’ll be back soon, he just needs some things from his apartment.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply, disappearing down the steps quickly as well.

Derek motions for Stiles to go ahead of him, but catches him as soon as he gets close. “Whatever we find out, we’ll make it work. You two are pack. But you need to be honest and tell me exactly how bad you think things are. No hiding, no running off on your own. We work together. Do you understand?”

Stiles ducks his head once in a quick nod. “Completely. But don’t be surprised if I come back up here. It’s a great place to feel the weave throughout the entire house, and it’s a big open space, and I’m not sure if there are more things hidden that I might need. I can’t wait for you every time, but if I start something dangerous, I promise, you’ll be there. Teamwork.”

“Teamwork.” Derek nods sharply, and that’s that. 

Everything’s different, but at the same time, it feels like everything’s falling into place, pieces of the puzzle clicking together neatly. As Stiles gets changed, he lets his mind drift through the house, idly plucking at the weave, and he realizes that Derek is calmer than he remembers him being any time recently. There is an ease, a gentle pulse in the threads around him, and it makes Stiles smile. Maybe he’s doing some good here after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! Sorry I'm running late this morning... it has been a weekend of absolute chaos, in good and exhausting ways. Hope you've enjoyed this chapter; we're definitely at a turning point, sliding towards the end, even though it's not very close yet.
> 
> Thank you all for being here, and for your amazing support and comments. <3!! Take care all, and have a great week, and we'll be back next Sunday, August 4th, for the next chapter.


	31. Chapter 31

When Stiles emerges from his room, dressed and finally ready for the day, he finds Danny waiting in the living room with Stiles’s laptop open on the table. A plate of eggs and four slices of toast sits next to it, and Derek nods at him, pointing at the plate.

“You don’t have to say it twice,” Stiles admits. “I’m hungry.” He drops onto the couch, bracketed by Danny and Derek, while Lydia sits in one of the chairs with Allison perched on the arm. He cocks his head, trying to listen, and imagines that he can hear growls and laughter from the basement. Derek doesn’t seem worried; Stiles trusts him enough to assume that Molly is safe and he doesn’t need to go check on her. Instead, he tucks in to breakfast and waits for someone else to tell him what’s going on.

“I’ve been through your laptop.”

“Loudly,” Lydia comments idly, her attention focused on a notebook on her lap. “With much swearing and muttering and _what the fuck_ commentary. I can’t imagine how you didn’t hear him when you went stomping up into the attic this morning, Stiles.”

“Wait, was that me you were angry at for making noise?” Stiles gives her a startled look, but she only looks at Allison.

“No,” she says flatly. “It wasn’t. I am going to soundproof their room when they are not in it, one day. Are you quite sure this is where you want your child growing up?”

Stiles wants to point out that someday there may be _more_ children in the pack, and that children usually do grow up in houses where other people, like oh their parents, have sex, but he also really doesn’t want to poke Lydia right now. Instead he quickly turns to Danny. “What was that you were saying about my laptop?”

“This obviously isn’t the first time I’ve been working on it.” Danny nudges it, but nothing changes on the screen which is showing a simple text file. “And it’s going to take me even longer to figure everything out that I did. I tried looking for breadcrumbs, but I didn’t even leave myself clues. I just wiped almost every trace away and I’m guessing neither of us remembered it afterward.”

“Pretty much.” Stiles feels the press of a knee on his other side, and he glances at Derek. “Catching the wolf up: I think I might have been visiting Danny and cutting cords after so we forgot. Danny’s trying to figure out what I was busy getting rid of.”

“Notes,” Danny says. “And a lot of them. Some of them are stored in places online, and some of them are local and cleverly hidden. Also, money. I have no idea what you were doing to earn it, but you do have a good bit of it, in some off-shore accounts and some random bank accounts under other names all over the country. It looks like you were preparing to erase yourself completely and go to ground.”

“I probably was.” Stiles winces at the fingertips on his leg, gripping tightly. “Ease up. That was in the past tense. Do you think I’d be letting this all come out now if I weren’t planning on staying?”

“You could still change your mind and cut the cords, right?”

It isn’t what he says, but how Derek says it that rips Stiles apart. “Well, I won’t,” Stiles tells him firmly. “I’m done running. If what I saw in that book is right, we’re all best off being here together, a melded pack. The Hale/Argent/Weaver alliance only fell apart and destabilized Beacon Hills when it broke. Shattered, really. But me and Allison being here, not to mention you building a pack out of bitten wolves and fresh blood, plus whatever Lydia is and having non-blood humans… this all strengthens you. Lydia, _what_ are you doing?”

Her pen scrapes across paper. “Modifying the _squiggle_.” Her tone drips sarcasm over the word, teasing Stiles for his use of it. “We have more information now. I can improve the base of the equation and stabilize what you use for our wards. Also, Derek mentioned something about you attempting to ward people, which will require flexibility and portability, plus a manner in which you can apply an equation to a variable. Keep talking.” She flicks her fingers at him. “I can listen and work at the same time. Besides, once again, I will have to find a way to explain it to you in mathematical terms you can understand.” She snorts softly. “ _Squiggle_. Hmph.”

“Look.” Danny turns the laptop towards Stiles. 

He leans forward, Derek’s hand slipping to the small of his back, finding the thin strip of skin between his shirt and jeans. It’s distracting, but Stiles can’t exactly _say_ anything without calling attention to the action. But he can’t not think about it, either, the way those fingers burn against his skin, the touch light and reassuring. Stiles sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly.

“Geneology,” Stiles says. The program is familiar from his research; he used it for his thesis, tracking families and paths of information. But he doesn’t remember these charts. In fact, these are the exact charts he was missing, the ones he was so sure didn’t even exist. “These are the records I’ve been looking for. Crap. I had them all along.”

He has charts for the Weavers, the Corann, the Hunters, the Maynards. He has charts for the Hales going back seventeen generations, and the Argents going back even further. There are crossing points, where Hunter married Argent, where Corann and Hunter intermingled. He can see all the points of intersection, carefully mapped out.

He was trying to figure something out, and the frustrating part is, it looks like either he was interrupted, or he interrupted himself, and he has no idea why, or exactly where he was going with it.

There are other families included as well, along with notes about what kind of magic they have, or where they began to hunt. It is a cornucopia of information about the supernatural world, and the thing is, Stiles now knows that it barely begins to touch upon what these families are really capable of. He’s pretty sure there is no one like Lydia in any of these files, and that there may not be any other family that has combined talents quite the way they have, in the way he weaves.

But there are hints about it, other families which have combined forces and grown in strength accordingly.

He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly. “You reading this, too?” he asks, and Derek flattens his fingers against his back, pressing against him.

“Yeah.” Derek leans into him, shoulder to shoulder. “They want you because you bring things together. You make ties where there aren’t any, and you make it easier to combine forces. And I bet you make it easier for the alpha of a pack to be bound to his packmates, so that he can gain their strength. And if that genealogy chart is right, there used to be many more Weavers than there are now, but they’ve been dying off. My bet is killed by rogue packs, absorbed into others and their talents dying out. There might be someone out there who has the same talents and no idea how to use them.”

“I really am the last one.” Stiles laughs weakly. “Me and Molly. We’re it. And she’s… she’s a wolf, so the blood’s already diluted and changed.”

“The answer to that is simple, Stiles.” Lydia never stops working, never looks up. “Have more children.”

The laugh turns loud, startled. “Can we talk about my future as a father when I’m sure I _have_ a future?” he responds. At Derek’s soft growl, he pats the knee next to him. “I know, I get it, but it’s still uncertain. No one can promise anything right now.”

“This isn’t everything.” Danny takes the laptop back and starts flipping through files. “You have a personal wiki on this machine, and it dates back to a previous machine, since this one isn’t that old. In fact, you set it up the summer after graduation.” He brings up the pages and turns it back for Stiles to see. “We weren’t that far off. And you were thinking back then that it might even be worse.”

“What do you mean?”

Stiles can’t pay attention to the growl in Derek’s voice, not right now. Instead he takes the laptop from the table and brings his legs up, sitting cross-legged and leaning back to trap Derek’s hand behind him. “He means that I knew what was going on, and that’s why I left. But I purposefully forgot because I hoped that by cutting the Maynards out, and by cutting myself out of Beacon Hills, I could protect all of you.”

“You didn’t tell us what happened.”

“Actually, yeah. I did. Sort of.” Stiles has a good idea how this thing of his ought to be organized, and he manages to find the right time and header and brings up a page where he reminds himself that he spoke to Derek, told him all about the east coast, and what happened. “I think I told you everything I knew at that point, and then later, I think I cut it all out. So you thought I was ignoring you that summer, and I thought you’d left me alone, because the only thing I didn’t cut out was how we felt.”

He made a mess, a _big_ mess, but he can see that now. He can see how cutting some threads and leaving others in place because he couldn’t bear to let go, made a jumbled chaotic frayed _mess_. But he can also see how all of that led him back to here and now. “If I hadn’t left some threads, I might never have come back,” he says quietly. “I don’t know if we’d be fixing things now, or if I’d have just disappeared. I might even be dead, thanks to them.”

“Begin at the beginning,” Derek says quietly. “And we’re going to sit here and read.”

Stiles scrolls through until he finds the first entry. It’s not what he expects. He figures it will begin with the dream he had, the one where he fell asleep at his desk. Instead, a flush creeps up the back of his neck when he sees where it all began.

_It is three in the morning, and Derek is in my bed. We just… it was good. He’s good. And I still miss dad, but I needed someone so badly tonight. I don’t know what it is that keeps bringing me back to him, or maybe him back to me._

_I don’t know what I’m doing awake right now, except I swear I saw my mom sitting in the corner of the room. I swear I heard her saying that Hales hurt people. That they are dangerous, and that we can’t connect with them, not like this._

_She said that they destroy our family. That we will destroy each other._

_I can’t let more of my family be taken away._

_She touched him—I touched him—and something happened. Something changed, and I don’t know what._

_So I’m writing it down, just in case I don’t remember anything in the morning._

_I feel like I’m dreaming._

It ends there. “I don’t remember this at all,” Stiles says quietly. “None of it. I mean, I remember you and me. I remember what we did, and I remember waking up alone, and you were gone, and things just went downhill from there.”

He is aware of the others listening, and he suspects that even downstairs there are two adult werewolves with half an ear turned to this conversation. But it doesn’t matter. If they’re going forward, then this part of the past is still a part of them. Back then, he couldn’t tell anyone what he’d done, because he had no idea what was going on. But now, it’s all out in the open. It’s all changing. Growing. Becoming something. It’s not going to remain hidden.

“So the first thing you ever did was write me out.” Derek’s jaw is tight. He hasn’t pulled away from Stiles, but the tension is there, lining his jaw, strengthening his shoulder.

“Because I didn’t want to lose you.” Stiles gives a dry laugh. “And yes, I’m well aware of the irony there. Apparently even then I’d rather save your life than be with you, if that’s what it meant.”

“It’s not an either or situation, idiot,” Lydia comments, and Stiles flinches. He hasn’t forgotten that she is there, but the idea that she’s actually a part of the conversation is a surprise. “We are going to beat this notion of self-sacrifice out of you eventually, and perhaps we can start with remembering that from this point forward, we are a team. All of us. No one is to attempt to act as bait, as a sacrifice, or to play the martyr.” Her head cocks and she turns the page towards him, a complicated mass of equations and lines splayed across it. “Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Stiles reaches for the notebook and she relinquishes it. He lets his fingers drift over the design, trying to tease out how it is different from the first squiggle, and how it would work in the weave. The actual math is beyond him, but the pattern makes sense. He can feel the curves, the way the weave would be flexible, having places where it can shift and move and flex around muscles. “I like this. I need to spend some time playing with it.”

Derek’s hand slides down, reaching into Stiles’s pocket and withdrawing his phone as it starts to ring. Stiles takes it with only a glance at the screen. He nods as he answers. “Hello.”

“Stiles.” The voice is dry and dark, and there is no way Stiles could mistake it for anyone else. “Time’s up.”

Stiles knows that Derek is listening, but he can’t relay the conversation with the alpha listening, and he doesn’t want to put him on speaker this time. “Time’s up for what?” he asks, and he sees Lydia, Allison and Danny all exchange glances.

“For you. I gave you a choice, and you haven’t responded yet. So now, I think I shall make the decision for you.”

Stiles feels his stomach sink, fear twisting around his heart. His heart thumps and speeds up, hand tight on the phone. “No,” he hisses. He jumps to his feet as he hears small steps on the stairs, thundering up from the basement.

“Molly!” Isaac calls out, Scott close behind, but the small girl is somehow faster, squirming around him and heading straight for the front door.

She has to stand on her tip-toes to reach it, but she yanks the handle and twists it open. She steps out onto the porch before Stiles is able to react, scrambling over the table, not caring about his laptop as he goes.

All he can think about is reaching Molly, before she can break through the wards and run straight into Maynard’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone, and happy Sunday! It's already been a hell of a weekend here, and hopefully I get to get some writing done today. I have a whole bunch of kiss meme prompts to fill over on [my tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com/) and I didn't get to do any yesterday. :( Plus, I am trying to plot this story out through the end of it! I have some little surprises coming up soon (er, well, hopefully they will be good ones) and I think I'm getting close to seeing the end. For anyone who is curious, I have written through chapter 35, and outlined through chapter 38 at this point. 
> 
> The next chapter will post on Sunday, August 11th, although it _might_ post later in the day as we are apparently hosting a surprise sleepover birthday party for a half dozen teenage girls. Eek! Thank you all so much for reading, and for all of your wonderful comments. Have an awesome week and see you next Sunday!


	32. Chapter 32

Molly stops on the front step, Stiles right behind her. Her small hands are fisted and held by her side, stance wide and angry. On an adult alpha it would be fierce, but from a wolf as small as she is, it just makes her seem vulnerable to Stiles’s eyes. When she growls, though, it starts low and quickly becomes loud, the sound vibrating through her small body.

Stiles hears the echo of it from Derek as he steps out and picks her up, passing her back to Scott, who is reaching for her. She protests, but when Derek curls his lip in a low snarl, her growl drops and she clings to Scott, staring warily out the still open door.

“Come back inside,” Derek says quietly, but Stiles is staring at the pack who have called Molly out. There are seven of them lined up on the sidewalk, watching him. He recognizes Del, with her feral smile and her claws, and her eager expression. Hannah stands quietly near her, one hand on Del’s shoulder like a leash. Stiles can smell the dirt in the air.

There is one more that Stiles guesses to be human at the far end of the sidewalk, a bow drawn and cocked, the tip of the arrow shining brightly in the afternoon sun. A hunter. Or more likely, a Hunter. Well, both. Stiles nods to the man, who doesn’t acknowledge him.

Then there are the rest of the wolves. He doesn’t recognize any of them, except the one next to Del. That one he remembers from his nightmares, and he takes a slow, shuddering breath to steady himself.

“Maynard.” Stiles tilts his head.

“Weaver.” The voice is rough and low, the smile tipped with sharp teeth. “Your daughter almost came when I called. I’d say it’s impressive that she reigned in her instinct, but I suspect it is your wards, not her strength, which you can thank. You are protective of her. I appreciate that.”

“No, you really don’t.” Stiles feels warmth at his back and doesn’t need to look to know that it is Derek. It’s interesting that Derek stands behind him, not trying to take the alpha position in this standoff, but Stiles can look at that social dynamic later. Keeping Molly safe is what’s important right now. “If you appreciated how protective I am of her, you’d leave her alone. The last thing she needs is a psychotic alpha trying to bring her into the fold.” He glances at Del. “Excuse me, I neglected someone. A psychotic alpha _and_ his sociopathic mate. I don’t want to leave anyone out.”

“Are you sure I can’t kill him? He’s going to be a problem. She’ll be a much better choice to bring into the pack.” Del bounces lightly on her toes, a compact package ready to explode.

“She’s also only four, Del.” Maynard’s tone is mild. Reasonable. “She won’t come into her power for years yet, not in full. Whereas he leaks magic everywhere, doesn’t he, Hannah? He’s stubborn, and thinks he can rewire the world around him without consequence. He’ll learn quickly, particularly once he forgets everything else.” The thin, sharp smile holds knowledge that cuts deep into Stiles’s gut. “All he has to do is cut the cords.”

“No.” Derek’s voice is a vicious growl in his ear. “They are my pack, and you have no hold over them, Maynard. Molly is an alpha in her own right; she doesn’t answer to you.”

Stiles had been thinking it might be nice to keep that piece of information to themselves, but apparently Derek thinks otherwise. He glances back to see a familiar set jaw, tense shoulders. He bumps him lightly, and Derek leans into him, pack to pack. They are united, and Stiles is aware that the others crowd around the still open door, or stand in the windows, curtains drawn back to watch the conversation.

“Doesn’t she?” Maynard asks lightly. “She did come running, right out that door.”

“But the edge of the wards go out further,” Stiles points out. “In fact, you’re standing right outside of them, which I’m pretty sure you already know. I heard your wolves tried to test them and didn’t feel so great after.” He smiles, and it has no mirth in it at all. “Molly stopped on the step, far before the edge of the wards. She might have come running, but it was to _see_ , not to join you. Molly’s pack is right here, and she knows it. You can’t break this bond.”

There is a small soft noise of assent; Derek’s fingers touch Stiles’s side as they hear Molly’s growly little sniff from behind them.

“I can’t.” Maynard’s smile is equally chilling, his gaze settled on Stiles. “But you can. If you’ll recall, you were given a choice. She is young, both unformed and untested. You are powerful, but entrenched in error. So tell me, Weaver, which one will live?”

“Both,” Derek snaps.

_Molly_. But that’s the answer Maynard wants, and Stiles won’t give up, not yet, not with his pack at his back. “Both,” he echoes. “I’m not going to play your game, Maynard. You don’t have a hold on me.”

“You’re not in control either, Weaver.” His voice is lazy, soft but carrying easily across the yard. “So tell me, why haven’t you woven me out of your life yet?”

Stiles has to fight to keep his gaze up. “I suspect I’ve tried,” he admits. “And I assume I’ve failed, and no, I don’t know why, but give me a little bit longer and I’ll get that figured out. And once I have, you will forget I ever existed. You won’t care about Weavers or Hales or even Argents. You’ll just go home.”

He catches the movement out of the corner of his eye, smells the flare of dirt and earth around them. Stiles barely has time to sink down into the weave and throw energy at it, holding it taut where Hannah’s fingers flicker over the wards. A tiny part of him wonders what she feels, what it looks like to an outsider. She doesn’t stroke the strings as if she fully realizes they are there, but rather as if she can sense the energy. Her hands slide through it, trying to break the weave by brute force, but it holds true.

He feels the impact of a body slamming physically into the wards, and is able to see what it looks like for the first time. He knows he feels the drag of the threads around him when he moves through them, but the rest of his pack seem to cross them without difficulty. But when Del leaps towards him, she is stopped and is unable to get any closer.

Claws out, she rakes at the air, and Stiles feels that as well. She can’t damage the wards, but being as closely tied as he is, he can feel the way it changes the energy. He closes his eyes, swaying on his feet as he tries to focus in two directions, no… _three_ as another wolf joins Del, and Hannah continues her exploration of the energy.

Derek fits in close behind him, pulling Stiles against his chest, and Stiles relaxes gratefully. An arm around his shoulders keeps him steady.

“Can I shoot through the wards?” Allison sounds as if it is just idle curiosity. Stiles didn’t see her come out, but she stands now at the bottom of the steps, her pose mirroring that of the unknown bowman. “Or will it just cause trouble?”

“I don’t know.” Stiles tries to keep his voice steady. “Remember, I’m working in the dark here. Maynard’s not wrong about me being a loose cannon. I’ve already caused plenty of damage by not having a clue. I’m guessing they can’t shoot in, though, since your counterpart hasn’t already skewered me. And I’m assuming he’d have tested that theory. Unless he’s also operating under the _don’t kill the Weaver_ order and has yet to make up his mind about you two.”

There is a soft zing, and Stiles feels the slither of something between the strands of the weave. Footsteps moving quickly, claws scraping on stone as a wolf leaps out of the way. Another soft zing answers it, and Stiles opens his eyes to see Hunter’s arrow spin out of control as it passes through the wards, falling to the ground long before it can reach its intended target.

He glances at Allison, and she grins happily. “I can. They can’t,” she reports. “I like your squiggle, Stiles. Can you make it portable?”

“I’ve been trying.” And he’s obviously going to think more about that once he has two seconds to rub together coherently. Right now is not the time. He winces as the wolves spread out, circling half the house, toying with the wards. And the entire time Hannah keeps pulling at the raw energy, trying to twist it with her earth bound senses.

It hurts with his senses wide open like this, pulling at Stiles until he wants to fall to his knees and scream.

His legs go weak and he sags. “Help me down,” he begs, and Derek lowers him to the stone where Stiles lands on knees and hands, head bowed as his conscious energy is poured into the wards. Five are attacking now, while the hunter stands guard on Maynard, and Allison shoots arrows into the sidewalk that explode on contact to make angry wolves dance.

It _hurts_ , but Stiles realizes, they are not doing any damage. When he tests the wards, pushes his mind into them and reaches out to twists the strands, the protections are just as strong as they were when he set them. He breathes deeply and tries to force himself to relax and retreat. His wards don’t need him right now, and he needs to be coherent.

“Stiles.” A low murmur against his cheek.

“I’m okay.” He isn’t, really, but he will be. He grips Derek’s forearm, fingers curled tight around the muscle, and uses that to help leverage himself back to standing. He’s still wobbling on his feet, but he has someone to lean against and he takes that gratefully.

When Stiles opens his eyes, the world is still again. Hannah holds her hand against Del’s bleeding side, and the glare Del gives Allison is murderous. Two wolves flank Maynard once more, the third is near Del, and the hunter still stands at the ready.

Allison puts up her bow, hand on her hip. “Hurts, doesn’t it?” she calls out.

“Cross that line and I will shred you, Argent,” Del hisses. “There is nothing keeping me from destroying you, and I will enjoy the taste of your blood as I sink my teeth into you, and reduce you to nothing but meat.”

“Try it.” Allison is still calm. “I’m not some little girl that you can scare by growling. I’ve run with my own pack. I know how to fight you. We’ve run off an entire _pack_ of alphas. You are _nothing_.”

Brave words. But this is the Allison that Stiles knows, the Allison who fought the pack then joined them. The Allison who Stiles is pretty sure is one of the scariest beasts he has ever met, and she is _human_.

Del growls, and Allison only smiles.

“We can wait.” Maynard’s quiet voice carries over the distance. “We may not be able to get through your wards, but you can’t leave them and remain safe. We have waited a long time to claim our Weaver, what are a few more days? But you _will_ break, and this will be done. It’s your choice, Weaver, how many of them you take with you when it all falls apart. Come with me now, and they will be safe. This will be over.”

Stiles laughs. He can’t help it. Even without his memories, even without knowing _exactly_ what has happened in the last five years of his life, he knows that’s a lie. “I don’t think so, Maynard. I will never be your wolf, and neither will Molly. We’re Hales, both of us. And if you don’t leave us alone, the Hale pack will destroy you, one way or another. You may think you can outwait us, but we can out-think you. Insanity has nothing against clever minds, and we have a lock on those.”

“Daddy?”

Stiles turns immediately, his back to the alpha, searching for the source of his daughter’s voice. It isn’t an expression of trust, either in his wards or in Maynard; his daughter simply comes first. Derek moves, turning them so that Derek stands between the wolves and Stiles, and gives him a nudge.

“Go inside. Nothing new will happen out here.”

“I can wait, Weaver,” Maynard says again, unruffled. “I can wait, and my wolves can wait, and when any of your pack take one step outside these wards, we will destroy you.”

Stiles ignores him, reaching for Molly and taking her into his arms, standing quietly while she snuffles at his neck, burrows her face into the spot where his still-healing bite lies. He feels a sharp sting, and winces when small teeth close there. “ _My_ daddy,” she says quietly. “Not his.”

He wonders what it takes to reclaim a wolf and make it officially change pack, but he has a feeling that they are on their way toward figuring it out. Him and Derek and Molly. “I’m your pack,” Stiles reassures her. “Neither of us are going with them. We’re staying here with Derek, going to be part of his pack. You okay with that, baby?”

She nods once, then nuzzles in close, head on his shoulder.

Derek nudges from behind. “You’re blocking the door.”

When Stiles steps inside, he is surrounded by the pack, all of them circled around him, with Allison and Derek both behind him. Even the humans are there, everyone nearby, sharing scent and touch for a long moment.

Stiles doesn’t know what’s going to come next, trapped as they are within walls of his making, but at least they’ll be facing it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a bonus chapter and enjoy your Wednesday (or since I'm posting later in the day, I bet it's Thursday before some folks read this)!
> 
> I don't have much to say except THANK YOU for all being incredible. You are amazing and you give me so much energy to write. I adore you.
> 
> The next part will be back on our usual Sunday, August 11th, possibly later in the day than intended due to having to chaperone a slumber party of far too many teenage girls.


	33. Chapter 33

“Why didn’t you shoot to kill?” It seems like a logical question, even though he knows Scott wouldn’t approve, but as they all find places to sit in the living room, everyone else looks surprised that Stiles has asked it. “What?” He spreads his hands, sinking into the oversized chair, Molly climbing up to curl in the space with him, tight against his hip.

“It’s the front lawn, Stiles.” Lydia’s voice is gently chiding. “Do you really think we want it littered with dead bodies? I can assure you, that whatever he might do to stay off the radar while he attacks will be dropped as soon as there is evidence to damn us in human eyes. The law is still the law, and it would create one hell of a distraction.”

“Right. You’ve got a point.” Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to find focus and to settle his heart. His daughter’s hand is pressed against his side and she gives him an earnest look as if she could somehow leach his pain away. He smiles down at her and tugs her closer, kissing the top of her head. 

She can, of course. That isn’t a werewolf power, just the ability of a four year old to make her daddy smile.

He drags in a deep breath, and as he lets it out Derek settles on the arm of the chair, one arm draped across the back, heavy and warm against Stiles’s shoulders. That’s a comfort too. Isaac, Scott and Allison intertwine on the sofa, and Lydia and Danny arrange themselves comfortably on the loveseat.

“Boyd,” Stiles says, his mind cataloging the pack and coming up short. “Where’s Boyd?”

“He went out this morning and hasn’t come back yet.” Scott glances at the window. “We should probably get in touch with him.” Derek makes a motion toward the stairs, and Scott nods. “I’ll do that.” He takes off up the stairs two at a time, leaving Allison and Isaac behind.

“We’re stuck here. It’s a siege.” And sieges never end well. They have an unlimited supply of water, as long as Maynard doesn’t get the bright idea to break a water main or poison the entire street somehow. But food is limited, and a werewolf pack won’t do well stuck together in a house this small, this close to the full moon. It may have passed last night, but Stiles suspects there will still be itchy skin tonight, particularly for his baby wolf. “How do we counteract a siege?”

“We change the game.” Lydia pulls out a pad of paper from somewhere and starts drawing—again. “Stiles, I am going to give this to you and you are going to tell me _exactly_ what you see for patterns in the weave. Not the _squiggle_ that I had you put into place, but the patterns you’ve been using on your own. We will go from there, and add onto the work I was doing earlier, and we will find our own way of using this to our advantage.”

“This is starting to sound like homework.”

Lydia tilts her head. “It sounds like a masters in applied and theoretical math and a bachelor’s degree in magical sociology are combining forces.”

Which yes, that’s pretty much exactly what it is. “As long as it works.”

Molly wiggles next to him, and Stiles adjusts his arm to let her crawl into his lap, curling against him. Derek’s hand falls to touch her head, and Molly makes a soft snuffling sound, and sighs.

“Do you think we can make them portable?” Allison asks. “An intelligent magical shield would be helpful. How would that work, Stiles?”

“The current barrier is made out of all of us.” Stiles reconsiders his words as soon as her eyes widen. “Not literally. I mean, I didn’t borrow blood and bone or anything, but that would definitely make it stronger if I did.” Or at least, he’s pretty sure it would, after what he saw in his grandfather’s book. “Everyone has a weave, and it’s different. They’re the lines that connect you to the world, and you build it without ever knowing you’re doing it. The difference between me and you is that I do it consciously, and I can change what you’ve already done.”

“So if I have a connection to Isaac,” Allison’s hand rests on Isaac’s knee, “you could cut it.”

Stiles nods. “Or make one, if it wasn’t already there.” He spreads his hands. “Powerful stuff, not a lot of consent involved, feel free to hate me for all the things I seem to have fucked up over the years. Take heart in the fact that I may have erased my own brain along the way.” His tone is light, the words calm. He’s well aware of just how bad this is, and he’s trying to lighten the situation, the way he always does.

“I don’t hate you.” Allison’s hand slides slowly over Isaac’s leg, as if reassuring herself that he’s still there and nothing has changed. Her expression, however, is deadly serious. “I know you always thought you had our best interests at heart. But you do need to promise not to fuck with our threads anymore. That you’re not going to change _us_.”

“Aside from giving people shields, and maybe trying to tug on things to call out for help, I won’t cut any cords.” Stiles raises one hand in the air. “I promise. Or any changes will be discussed with the pack, or the appropriate members of the pack, prior to them happening.”

Allison stares at him and Stiles remembers again that he doesn’t want to be on her bad side. If she thinks that he threatens the pack, she will shoot him without a thought, he suspects, and deal with the fallout later. In so many ways, Allison is scarier than the wolves.

“Boyd’s safe,” Scott calls down the stairs. “He’s avoiding his apartment and we’re talking plans. I’ll catch you up after, Derek.”

“Stay out of Maynard’s way.” Derek keeps his voice even with his reply, hand light against Molly’s head as he speaks. “Boyd’s our security.”

“We’re not idiots.” The door closes again upstairs and Derek sits there, head cocked and listening for a long moment before the tension bleeds out.

Danny moves past Allison, patting her shoulder on the way by. “We have some more work to do. I want to know what’s in your family’s records about the Weavers and Hales, now that we have the genealogy charts Stiles hid.”

“You want to look at my grandfather, Sam, and Derek’s grandfather Adam, and Gerard Argent. They were friends when they were kids.” Stiles realizes that Danny’s still missing information. “I can give you more details later, when I sift through some things, but the important part is that something changed before my mom was a little older than Molly is now, and before the uncle I never had was written out of history. My mom’s younger brother,” he qualifies. “His name was supposed to be Joseph, but my grandfather wrote him out, best I can tell. And I don’t think I knew any of this when I was researching, but it might be something that the Argents have records for. Something they wrote down before things changed. Anything that doesn’t match up might be the most real thing we have to go on.”

Allison slowly disentangles herself from Isaac in order to stand up, then pulls him with her. “I’m going to be closeted with Danny for a while. You go check on Scott. Keep him sane.” She goes up on her toes to kiss Isaac’s cheek, her smile impish. “I’ll stop in later to check on you both.”

“Oh God, here we go again.” Lydia nudges them apart. “Allison, Danny, come with me. We have work to do. You can do _that_ later. I have some research of my own to do.”

“On?” Danny asks.

“Not yet dead people.” She tilts her head, tapping her lip with her finger. “Don’t worry, it’s important, and no, I’m not planning to kill anyone. Scott would be proud.” She pushes Allison toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”

“Subtle,” Stiles murmurs, and she laughs as they all leave.

He is left alone with Derek and Molly, all curled together on the couch in their own small puppy pile. His daughter stretches slowly before she pushes herself between them and sits. “Daddy?” she asks quietly.

“What is it, Baby?”

“That was the lady who killed Mommy.” It isn’t a question, spoken with four year old solemnity. “I remember her. She’s the mean lady. She gave me to the bad man that bit me.”

So much of what happened is still a haze in Stiles’s mind. He suspects that he pushed out some of the memories along with the werewolf infection, he was so desperate to cut it out cleanly and quickly. The idea that Molly might actually remember it all more clearly than him bothers him, but he doesn’t want to cut those threads out. Not when they are among her last memories of her mother. “I know, Baby,” he murmurs. “I remember her, too. She’s a psychotic piece of work, but we’ll get this figured out, and all those wolves will go away and leave us with our own pack.”

“I wish Mommy could be here with us.”

“I know.” He kisses the top of her head. “Me too.” Because he does. He misses his best friend, and he hates that he spent five years lying to Cass. Five years where she thought she knew him, and he’s not sure he ever told her even a part of the truth. Or maybe he did and cut it out again. There were some bits and pieces at the end, when they had to go on the run. But not enough. Not ever enough to make up for all the lying.

He feels Derek shift, pulling away from them. “Sounds like Molly needs some Daddy time.”

“You can stay, Uncle Derek.” Molly peeks up at him. “It’s okay. You smell right, so you can stay.”

Derek’s face twists and Stiles has no idea how to read the expression. It’s almost a smile, maybe a little fond, maybe a little withdrawn. “What does that mean, I smell _right_?”

“Like Daddy.” She shrugs. “Like me. Like we’re all supposed to, I think. I wish I could remember what Mommy smelled like, but I didn’t have a puppy nose to smell with then.”

“I still miss my mom.”

Those quiet words are _not_ what Stiles expects from Derek right then. Molly’s eyes go wide, and she scrambles quickly from Stiles’s lap into Derek’s, curling up there. “Did your mommy die too?”

“A long time ago.” He looks unsettled by the surprise snuggling, but his hands slowly come down, stroking through Molly’s hair. “Around the same time as your dad’s mom died, too.”

Her head cocks and Stiles feels strangely old when she asks, “Did they die together?” Because his daughter’s too young to be trying for these leaps of logic, to be thinking about how people die.

“No, baby,” Stiles murmurs. “My mom died from getting really sick.” Or magic gone wrong, but he can’t tell her that; he doesn’t want her to worry about him. “Derek’s mom died… it was an accident. A really horrible accident.”

“I lost a lot of people then.” Derek catches Stiles’s eye, and Stiles reaches out to bridge the distance between them. “And I still miss them all the time, Molly. But I have people here who are important and need me.”

“Pack.”

“Pack,” Derek agrees. The backs of his fingers brush against Stiles’s arm. “Family. They’re pretty much one and the same sometimes.”

“I’m always going to miss Mommy,” Molly says softly. She wraps her arms around Derek’s waist and burrows in close. “But I’m glad we’ve got you, too. She would’ve liked you, I think. Because Daddy likes you. And I like you.”

Stiles has a feeling it would be far more complicated than that, if Cass were here. She would have guessed, no matter how hard he tried to hide how he felt, and it would be… difficult. But at the same time, he swears he can imagine her sitting there like a ghost, telling him it’s okay to move on, that she’ll be okay.

Fuck.

Tears prick the corners of his eyes, tension seeping into sorrow and he bites his lower lip hard. He needs to hold it together because he’s the dad and she’s the little girl, and she needs him to be the strong one here. But it’s just…

“You said it’s okay to cry,” Molly whispers, touching his hand. He can hear the wobble in her voice, and he knows that if he starts, she’s going to go too.

He thinks he can hold it together, that he can keep grief at bay, until Derek’s arm slides back around his shoulder and pulls him in. And Derek is holding him, holding her… holding them both. Molly hiccups into a soft sob, and Stiles feels it ripple against his control. Dampness leaks at the corners of his eyes, and his breath is rough.

When Molly crawls back into Stiles’s lap, and Derek pulls them both close, he can’t hold on any longer. He has grieved silently, he has held panic attacks at bay, he has been in shock for nearly three weeks. He has not let himself have the luxury of just letting go, of losing control and letting someone else hold him and Molly up.

Except for that panic attack, the one Derek talked him through. Because he _trusts_ Derek.

“I’ve got you,” Derek murmurs. “I’ve got you both.”

So Stiles finally lets go, just for a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! It's Sunday, and time for another chapter. No big notes today except to say thank you for reading and for your lovely comments. The next part will be posted on Sunday, August 18th. Take care, all!


	34. Chapter 34

Stiles ends up back in the attic again after dinner, sitting dead center in a small cleared spot. His knees are bent, his arms around his legs, holding on as he stares into space. He doesn’t open his mind to let the weave in, but he can feel it around him, the way it vibrates gently in the house. They’ve stopped trying to actively shred the wards, but if he pushes, he can feel Hannah pushing carefully back.

They’re still out there.

The house is still under siege and their only ace up the sleeve is Boyd, and they haven’t figured out how to use him effectively yet. All they can do right now is keep on going forward, and hope something eventually occurs to them as a solution.

Stiles doesn’t like it. And he really doesn’t like that this is his fault, bringing this down on the heads of his packmates.

One the other hand, he can’t let it get to him.

He brought a notebook into the attic with him, meaning to study the weave and map out more of it for Lydia, who is still closeted with Danny and Allison, deep in research and theory. Stiles tried to help, but she shooed him out, just for now, claiming his daughter needs him, and he needs rest.

The former was true for most of the afternoon, but now that she’s in playful puppy mode, Stiles has turned her back over to her uncles Scott and Isaac. It keeps them _all_ occupied, he figures.

He sketches idly on the blank page, slowly darkening the lines that create the edges of the attic space. The roof is high at the top, but slopes down to the edges. They’d have to put eaves in, if they finished the attic; Stiles can see it in his mind. They could pull the walls out, leaving storage behind the new walls, narrowing the room. There is a spot that is over the main bathroom on the second floor, and they could at least put in a tub and a toilet, so there’d be a master bath.

Not that finishing the attic would make this into a new master suite for the alpha of the house.

Not that Stiles is thinking about where the bed might go, and how quickly he could get downstairs to his old room—which could be Molly’s room—if he heard her calling in the night.

There’d be privacy, of a sort. Not sound, because the wolves in the house could hear everything that happened up here. But there would be a door, and they could add a lock when Molly’s older and might not need to climb into bed from nightmares in the strange hours of the morning.

Is it really enough room?

It really _isn’t_ enough room. The house needs to be bigger, to have space in case the pack grows. There could be other children. There could be other partners. What if Lydia or Danny meets someone, or if Boyd wants to move back in?

The pack should be together, and Stiles can’t really make assumptions about how it’s going to work. It’s too soon, and too fucked up.

When he hears the door open down below, and footsteps on the stairs, he touches the weave and smiles because he knows exactly who it is. “Hey, Derek.”

“Are you getting in trouble again?”

“Not yet.” Stiles taps the space across from him with one foot. “I’m making drawings. Thinking about what you said about finishing this as a room. Or a suite. We’d have to clean all the old shit out first, which would mean going through it to make sure there aren’t any more hidden Weaver treasures.”

“Or old toys and keepsakes that we brought up here when we cleaned the house.” Derek sinks into the space Stiles offers, his toes touching Stiles’s leg. “We weren’t really paying much attention to it all. Just packed it up and put it here, in case you wanted it again. This was your house, and they were your things. I always figured you’d come back and want them someday.”

“This isn’t how I meant to come back.”

“You didn’t mean to come back at all.”

There’s no accusation in Derek’s voice, simply flat acceptance, and that hurts even more. Stiles winces, ducking his head. “I’m sorry, Derek. I’m sorry I left, I’m sorry I fucked things up so much. I’m sorry I played with things I didn’t even understand, and I’m sorry I made such a mess of everything.”

Derek’s hand falls on Stiles’s foot, stopping it from tapping against the floor and Derek’s leg. “How bad is it?”

“Bad.” Stiles laughs, and it’s a strangled sound. “Really bad. So bad that I have no idea how bad it is, because I’m making guesses about what I did, just because it sounds like something I’d do. And I can’t go back and reconstruct everything, because I’m not even sure it’s possible. And the things I _can_ fix… those are only the things I was involved in. I can’t rewrite the past. I can’t pull back threads that my mother cut, or my grandfather cut. I can’t put the Hales and Weavers and Argents back together the way they were before it broke, and I can’t magically find out _why_ it broke. If those memories were taken away, then I don’t think I can get to them. The threads are gone.”

“Are they?” Derek’s fingers slip under the cuff of his jeans, wrapping around his ankle, warm and comfortable against his skin. “The threads between us are being repaired, right?”

Stiles nods slowly. The weave shines around them in brilliant light, warm and comforting and right. “Sometimes without my help.”

“And you remembered something about your uncle, but at the same time, you think he was forgotten on purpose. How could you have remembered, if that frayed edge weren’t there for you to find?”

Stiles blinks because it makes so much sense when Derek says it, but it hadn’t even occurred to him. “You’re right. If it were _gone_ , it would just be gone. But I guess that’s what I told Danny—look for the idiosyncrasies. Those will find us the cracks and the little bits of frayed something that we can pull on to make things right. Except…”

His mouth closes, because he needs to think to himself for a moment before he starts thinking out loud. He needs to marshall his thoughts, get them walking in a nice neat line rather than pinging all over the place. A slow breath lets him bring it all under some sort of control.

“What if bringing the really old things back changes things?” he says quietly. “What happened… everything that happened… made who we are _now_ happen, too. What happened to your family is a part of it. Undoing the threads that broke the alliance won’t suddenly make them come back to life. It won’t change what happened between my mom and Peter. It won’t suddenly make me into a Hale instead of a Stilinski. My uncle won’t suddenly _exist_. And those things affected how _we_ came to be. How we met. How we all became a pack. Even if I could fix that part of the past, I’m not sure I should. It could make things worse.”

“There’s a difference between knowledge and reality,” Derek says calmly. His finger glides over the bone in Stiles’s ankle, stroking lightly, and Stiles takes that touch as an anchor. He can focus on it, use it to narrow his world down to him and Derek and this time and space.

It helps, and he’s pretty sure Derek knows it as one eyebrow quirks, waiting for a response.

Stiles inhales, then blows the air out slowly. “You’re right. And there’s a difference between memory and connections, although the two are pretty closely intertwined.” He sets the notebook aside, using his finger against the floor instead to draw invisible patterns.

“Going back to what Allison said, about how she and Isaac are connected… what I could do—but I won’t, obviously—is break that connection. I’m not actually playing with her memories, and if I don’t cut every cord, she’d definitely remember him. But by breaking the connection between them, the brain edits out the memories. They’re still there… at least, I think they’re still there. Just not attached.” He chews on his lower lip. “That’s what I did. Not to them, but to things around me. I cut cords, because I knew things were dangerous, and I wanted to protect people. You. I wanted to protect _you_.”

He raises his gaze slowly to meet Derek. “I really fucked things up that summer. I fucked things up more than I let myself know, and I honestly thought I was doing the right thing. I think I knew what was happening, and from what I can find, I think the Maynards might have already been here. If they were putting the pack in danger because of me, the only way I could save everyone was to walk away. So I did, and I cut the cords so no one could hold on to our connection. I’m sorry.” He swallows hard, voice low. “I’m so sorry.”

This would be one of those moments where a _shut up_ kiss would be reassuring. But all Derek does is cover Stiles’s hands with his own and sit there, watching him.

“If you hadn’t done it,” Derek finally says slowly. “You wouldn’t have Molly. You’d never have met Cass.”

“I can’t bring her back, either,” Stiles says, voice hollow. “I mean—” He shakes his head because he doesn’t have the words to explain any of this. “I miss her. She was my best friend for five years, and my partner with Molly. I probably should have married her, but neither of us really wanted that. We gave Molly my name because it made things easier, and we just never explained that we weren’t married. Cass and I would’ve been friends even without Molly. I’m not sure we would’ve still been lovers after that first year, but well… we were already together. It wasn’t like we were just going to go screw around, and we were so perfect together that way.”

He laughs, dryly. “And I’m sure you want to hear about me having sex with someone else. I can’t get anything right, can I?”

Derek’s smile quirks. “It’s not like you have no idea about my history.  You were gone, Stiles, I was pretty sure you’d moved on.” His thumbs slide against Stiles’s skin. “But you left us connected.”

“Sort of.” Stiles takes a rough breath. “I don’t even know for sure what I did that summer. I’m pretty sure I told you what happened, and what I was. And I’m pretty sure I disconnected most things between us after that. What’s bad is that I don’t know if that time I remember was our first time, or our only time, or if it was just the one I really couldn’t bear to get rid of.”

“Can you get it all back?”

Stiles nods slowly. “Some of it. It’s what we were talking about—I could find the frayed ends and see if the threads can be repaired. It hasn’t been too long, and I’m the one who cut them. Shredded them, in some cases. Many times over the years, I think, if what Danny and I discovered is true. He’s right to hate me, for so many reasons. You all would be. I should have told you what was going on, and I should have trusted you to work with me.”

One hand moves to Stiles’s cheek, thumb sliding along skin, mapping out the path of the dots. “Knowing you,” Derek muses, “something scared you. And you jumped right into the fray to fix it, to protect someone, and by the time you got there, you couldn’t find the way back. That’s always been your instinct: leap first, think later.”

“You trust me more than I trust myself right now.”

“You don’t trust yourself because you know what you did,” Derek says. “I trust why you did it. You’ve said all along that you’re working without an instruction book, but not having it would never stop you. You’ve got more heart than sense most days.”

Having someone trust him right now—having _Derek_ trust him, after all that’s happened—is exactly what Stiles needs to hear. Tension eases, and he twists the hand that’s still caught by Derek and tangles their fingers. “I need to fix it,” he says.

“How?”

“The only way in, is through.” Stiles gestures with his free hand. “I go under, and I start looking for those frayed threads and I try to bring it all back together. Everything. All the threads I cut around me.” He worries at his lip, the small shot of pain helping center his mind. “I’m pretty sure that the only threads I cut had to do with me in some way or another, even though they affected other people. Although I swear I tried to cut out the Maynards and they’ve come back, and I don’t know why or how or maybe it’s linked to cords of my own that I can’t cut.” His fingers tighten on Derek’s at that. “They are interwoven more tightly than other things.”

“Maybe more tightly than just hunting you,” Derek suggests.

Stiles blinks. “How do you mean?”

“Maybe they’re not just connected to you,” he points out. “Maybe they’re connected to the Hales, to the Argents. Didn’t you say they, or some of their allied families, had intermarried with the Argents?”

Again, it’s so simple but such a shock to hear someone else put it together like that. “Yeah. Yeah.” Stiles starts nodding and can’t seem to stop while he’s thinking out loud. “If they’re attached to you, then me cutting their threads may have just tangled things up in weird ways. I might have to reattach them, too, while I’m putting myself back. But the important thing is that I need to go under…”

Stiles holds Derek’s gaze, trying to convey just how _scared_ he is about this. “I need to go into the weave. Go deep in, and I need to put things back together. And it’s going to take a lot of energy, a lot out of me, and I don’t know how much it’s going to hurt when I do it. I need the spinning wheel, definitely. But I also need an anchor.” He swallows hard. “Be my anchor? Spot me while I go under?”

“I’m not going to let you go.” Derek’s palm flattens against Stiles’s cheek, warm and solid. “Not again. So go get the wheel, and we’ll do this together.”

So maybe it’s not a grand declaration of heartfelt feelings, but it still makes Stiles’s toes curl and his stomach heat in altogether pleasant ways. He saves those feelings for later; right now he needs to patch the world back together. And who knows what he’s going to find along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there everybody. Happy Sunday, and I do hope your weekend is more relaxing than mine has been! Sorry this is later than usual. But hey, at least taking a laptop to the laundromat (my washer is broken) meant I could get started writing another chapter?
> 
> The next chapter will be posted on Sunday, August 25th, and it will either be very early in my day, or annoyingly late, and I apologize, but I sort of have to work in the middle of the day (ugh). Classes are coming back in session, and we have a big meeting with our students before that starts up! As always, thank you so much for being here, both the readers who have been here since the beginning (back in FEBRUARY, ohmygod) and those who have snuck in and joined the party in the recent weeks. You are all amazing, and your comments are such love. I appreciate you all so much. Take care, have a great week, and I'll see you again next Sunday!


	35. Chapter 35

Stiles checks in on Scott, Isaac, and Molly before he goes to get the spinning wheel. He pulls Scott aside and tries to explain a little of what he’s doing, and asks them to distract Molly so it doesn’t bother her, in case she can feel him tangling with the weave. He passes off Scott’s concern with a smile and a quick assurance that everything will be fine, and he’s pretty sure everyone involved knows that he’s lying just a bit, and that he’s more than a little scared of what he’ll find (and how much it will hurt). He knows it’s the right thing to do, to put back what he took away.

By the time he wrestles the spinning wheel back into the attic, Derek has cleared out a space and set a chair in it. Stiles sets the stool right in front of that, and the spinning wheel in position. There is nothing on the bobbin, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t spinning real thread this time, only magic.

Stiles drags in a deep breath as he settles onto the stool, hands out over the wheel, feet light against the pedals. He feels Derek behind him, pulling the chair in close so that he can wrap himself around Stiles, one hand against his abdomen, the other on his leg, both thighs pressed in comfortably tight. Derek’s head is bent, forehead resting against Stiles’s shoulder, and his breath is warm on Stiles’s skin.

Derek is solid and warm, reassuring in his presence.

“I’m starting,” Stiles says, but he still hesitates. He doesn’t know what he will find, but he will find _something_ , and after this, everyone might start to remember, like Derek remembered meeting his mom years ago.

Hm. That’s a thread that Stiles never cut, as far as he knows. Something that regrew on its own, and perhaps Derek is right, and there are frayed ends waiting out there to be reattached, whether Stiles was the one who cut them or not. In the end, he can only do his best.

“I’ve got you,” Derek murmurs.

Stiles presses his toe against the pedal.

The wheel starts to spin.

Stiles lets the magic build, weaving threads out of the light around him, pulling the magic in the air into slender strands that can be used to weave. It comes from himself, and from Derek, and bits and pieces slide in from everyone else in the pack as well. He reaches outward for Scott’s mom, and tries to remember everyone who might have been affected when he cut the cords between himself and Beacon Hills. It will make it easier if he has their essence already in the threads he uses to weave.

He may not have that instruction manual, but he’s starting to build one in his mind. A part of him thinks he should write it all down as they work with Molly to help her learn, and a part of him still resists recording any of this, his mind tagging it as _danger_.

He’s also pretty sure Lydia will beat that doubt of him and start documenting it herself, if he doesn’t. Which is helpful.

He captures the threads closest to him, the bright, brilliant shine around Derek. The thickest cord is solid and warm to his touch, but there are frayed edges, pieces of weave that have slipped away. Delicate threads—pieces of new beginnings and fragile starts from five years ago. He spreads his fingers over them, just letting them brush against his skin, feeling the way they slither over and attach.

And he remembers.

…curled together with Derek in his bed, fingers tracing over his skin, amazed at what had happened. Knowing that it couldn’t happen, ever again, not until he found out who was threatening him every day when he walked home from school. He pressed his hand against Derek’s chest, and willed himself to forget, and in the morning, neither of them remembered.

…pacing in Derek’s loft, hands spread wide as he explained to both Derek and Peter about the people who were following him. Following _all_ of the human pack members except Allison. He told them what he’d found in his father’s records, that someone had been looking into the Stilinski family tree, but he didn’t know why. Two days later, Peter disappeared and Stiles panicked then, terrified Derek would be next. He can’t find the thread when he goes digging, wanting to know how this resolved, because he has a feeling he did something terrible. Awful. And it’s simply gone.

…learning. Understanding. That terrible moment when he realized what the world was around him and what he was capable of, and knowing that _they_ were after _him_ and they didn’t know it yet. Or they weren’t sure. He couldn’t tell for certain, not yet, all he knew was that he was a danger to the pack. Stiles was the reason his pack might die.

…stolen kisses in the forest under the fading moonlight of a nearly full moon. He said goodbye then, and willingly, _knowingly_ , cut the cord between them. That cord is rough, heavy, aching… it reattaches itself with a thud that tangles around Stiles’s heart so tight that he can’t breathe. He feels hands at his side, one tilting his head back, lips at his throat. A whispered word, and Stiles finds air again; he slides back beneath the weave.

…a hospital, where everything seemed so large around him. He stood outside his mother’s room, hand pressed against the door as if he could feel her even though they wouldn’t let him inside. It was too late after visiting hours, and he was too young, so he waited for his father in the hall, refusing to go one step further away. He heard a sound and looked up to see a man watching him. He was a stranger, and after a moment, his eyes glazed over and he turned away as if he’d never had an interest in Stiles. Now Stiles can see the cord snap, the way light shimmers for a moment around him, and more importantly, he knows who was there while his mother was dying, and who she cut out: Maynard.

He starts to shiver, sifting through memories as they roll over him faster than he can process. Behind him he hears a choked noise from Derek, and he wonders what he is doing to all of them, how much it hurts them. He spins the wheel faster as threads grow out from him, stealing his energy until he aches from it. He can’t stop this now. He can’t put this back in the box.

…Scott stood on a street corner, leaning in to give directions to a stranger in a big black car. His body jerked, and Stiles rushed towards him as Scott was yanked half into the car. He heard the growl, the _snikt_ of claws over metal and leather, and Scott threw himself backwards as the car sped away. _They threatened us_ , Scott told him, shaking his head, shuddering until the fur fled and he was just _Scott_ again. Stiles tried to memorize the car and file it under _danger_ in his mind. He didn’t know what to do with it then.

By the time he saw Lydia and Danny being dragged into a van, Stiles knew more. He had the nascent knowledge of what he was and what he could become, just barely an understanding. But he could throw his senses wide and see the weave around them. He knew these people wanted _him_ , he knew he was a Weaver. It wasn’t much, but it was something. When he and Scott attacked the van, rescued their friends and pulled them free, Stiles didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

He shredded the weave.

No delicacy, no thought for the future, he simply tucked his fingers deep inside the threads and ripped them apart.

…Lydia and Danny and Scott all stood on the side of the road, Lydia’s jacket torn, one strap from Danny’s backpack shredded. They blinked at Stiles, and he shrugged. He had no idea what had happened, why they were there, and why it looked like they had all gone to war.

It wasn’t the first time that memories had fled.

It wasn’t the last.

Stiles curls in on himself as the onslaught continues, moments and scenes where he had taken their minds apart by cutting cords. Places where he pushed the Maynards out, and the thick taste of fear every time they returned, as if they had a cord that could not be cut.

He feels sick over what he’s done, and over what he cannot recover.

Peter remains lost, no matter what he tries.

And Jackson… Stiles scrambles over threads that drift into the distance, fine as silk, gossamer webs that he can’t quite get a handle on. He ties him back into the weave with the memory of Jackson coming home from London the summer after they all graduated, falling back into step with the pack in his own way. There is a conversation that is lost, one where Stiles can see himself and Jackson and Danny, can see the urgency in Jackson’s expression, but the words are gone. No matter how hard he tries, those edges remain frayed and he sets them aside, hoping they will grow on their own.

Jackson left after that visit, and Stiles knows that not a one of them remembered that he had ever been in Beacon Hills. He wonders where Jackson is now, and if anyone has spoken to him since then.

In the end, Stiles lets himself drift in a sea of memories, things that he wouldn’t believe were true if he didn’t see himself within them. Lazy nights and calm mornings. Coming together, over and over again during the course of the summer, and Stiles making careful notes of _something_ before he cut it again. He loses track of the number of times that he and Derek made a start of things that summer, because in the end, he only kept the one. It wasn’t the first, and it wasn’t the last, but when it happened… it meant something. That time meant too much to let it go, tangled as it was amongst the threads of his father’s death.

He is crying when he surfaces, tears streaking down his face, the words, “I’m sorry,” tripping over his tongue, repeated until his voice is hoarse. Derek kisses the apology away and Stiles sinks into it, reaching out to hold on, threading his arms over Derek’s shoulders, trying to pull himself closer with weakened arms.

“You’re exhausted. Again.” A soft growl beneath the chiding words, and Stiles hears feet thundering over woodwork. He wonders what took them so long, why they are only just moving now, and if anyone else is crying or if that’s just him.

He starts to apologize again, a steady stream of _I’msorry_ as Derek carries him down the stairs and into the hall, where the pack reaches out to touch him, fingers grazing skin. They take him to Scott and Isaac’s room, where the bed is biggest, and they all pile in, humans and wolves together, holding on to him.

Stiles reaches for Derek, threads their fingers together, but it is Scott’s hand on his back and Isaac’s fingers in his hair. Lydia has her arm over his waist, her head against his hip, and he knows Danny and Allison are here as well. Molly curls tight against his chest, taking up the most space and burrowing the closest. He knows she can’t remember any of these things, other than the trips Stiles took when he left her with Cass, but he still needs her. He kisses the top of her head and murmurs another apology, and she sighs into him.

He wishes the wolves could take away the pain of knowing just how badly he’s fucked up. It’s one thing to see it all laid out in text, but another to feel what he’s ripped apart.

“It’s going to take some time before it all settles in and makes sense,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry.”

“You gave it all back,” Danny says. “Five times, Stiles. _Five times_ I saw you and your laptop, and I didn’t remember any of them.”

He doesn’t have that conscious memory yet, but he believes Danny, so he nods. “I _tried_ to give it all back. There are some things I can’t find.” Like Peter. He still pushes at that memory, tries to get past that wall, but there is nothing. That thread is not just frayed, it ends in irrevocable ways.

Stiles is pretty sure he knows a part of what that means, and he doesn’t like the way he has no idea how it actually happened.

“Scott, go get Stiles something to eat.” Derek’s order is quiet, and when Scott slips from the bed, Isaac following him to help, Derek starts rearranging all of them. “You eat, we rest, we figure out what’s in our heads. It’s too much right now.”

It might be too much, but Stiles grabs and holds what few thoughts he can, tucking them close. When he closes his eyes, he sees a movie play in his mind, shifting scenes too quickly for him to tell one from another. They come quickly, leaving behind scents and feelings without context.

It hurts.

He’s done this to everyone else, backloaded their minds with reaffirmed connections that have been long forgotten. He’s left them reeling in the onslaught of fresh old memories.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again.

Derek leans back against the wall, Stiles curled against him, Molly between them and holding onto both. His hand is flat on Stiles’s back, rubbing lightly. “Shut up, Stiles,” he murmurs. “We know. You’re still pack, okay? Just let it all rest for now. We’ll figure things out soon enough.”

Stiles lets himself float amongst the memories for a little while, until Scott comes back with food. Once he’s eaten, the wolves and humans rearrange themselves yet again, all of them managing to touch, interweaving their physical selves much like Stiles can see the light threads laying over them.

They are all joined again, and he is tied tightly to them.

They are pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep wanting to say we are near the end, but then I realize that while the end is roughly ten chapters after this one, I have almost 9k of that written, and there's about another 20k to go. So the end is in sight, but not as easy to get to as I think, hm? Hopefully it'll have some good hills and valleys along the way
> 
> Anyway. Happy Sunday! Y'all wanted Stiles diving in, and here he is, doing just that. There's some surprising fallout coming from this in the next chapters. *grins* Thank you so much for all the support and comments and telling your friends, and well, EVERYTHING. I treasure every single one of you.
> 
> The next piece will post on Sunday, Sept 1st, and I will be camping when I post it so hopefully internet will be behaving and let me post! It seems to work best in the mornings at that campground. If, for some reason, I cannot post, I apologize in advance for it being late. :(


	36. Chapter 36

Stiles’s head aches viciously when he drifts back to consciousness, Derek pressed against his back and Molly curled against his stomach. There are still more people than truly fit on one bed all piled together in the same space, and it smells of pack, even to Stiles’s human nose. He moves, very slightly, testing to see if anyone else wakes, but other than a sound of protest from Isaac at his feet, there is nothing.

He manages to wiggle himself to sitting, and Molly turns to curl closer to Scott instead in his absence, making dissatisfied noises. But his stomach is growling and he needs something to eat again, and more importantly, he feels like he actually needs some time to process all the fresh memories, and fresh guilt, weighing him down.

Stiles climbs over Derek and Lydia carefully, managing to get one bare foot on the ground before his other gets caught and he stumbles, falling to his knees with a muffled cry.

“Stiles?”

“Go back to sleep, Derek,” he murmurs. “I’m okay. I just need to go get something to eat, and take something for this headache. I’ll even put on coffee for everyone else.”

His protest doesn’t convince Derek who climbs out of bed as well, nudging Lydia back on when she starts to slide off the side. Derek sinks to sit next to where Stiles sprawls on the floor, and touches his cheek lightly. “Talk.”

“I’m starving and my head hurts.” Because Stiles can practice avoidance with the best.

“And miserable?”

“What, can you _smell_ misery?” Stiles twists away. “I may have apologized, but I still fucked up, and I got us to this point where we’re under siege and people will get hurt, and all I wanted to do was to protect my pack. But I _fucked up_. And I did terrible things along the way, and I’m officially an idiot.”

Silence.

“You could protest the idiot part,” Stiles mutters.

“No, I can’t.” Derek’s gaze remains even. “You did stupid things because you didn’t trust us to have your back. More importantly, you didn’t trust yourself, you didn’t trust what we could do, you didn’t trust that we were stronger together than we were apart. You didn’t trust that the knowledge wouldn’t destroy us. And it won’t, Stiles.”

Stiles picks at a thread on the small carpet runner that edges along the side of the bed. “Are we done with the pick on Stiles portion of the program, or is there more you’d like to add to that?”

“You’re the one wallowing in misery and guilt,” Derek says quietly. “And no, I can’t smell misery, but I can recognize the wallowing.”

Stiles can’t help the small smile. “True. You had wallowing in guilt down to a science long before I ever started.”

“And I know it doesn’t help.” Derek pushes to his feet and offers a hand. Behind him, Lydia is stirring and Molly is protesting when Scott nudges her away, back into the middle of the bed. The pack is waking up. Stiles takes the hand and tries to brace himself for the expected onslaught of recrimination as he stands.

“Morning.” Lydia pushes her hair out of her face, peering bleary-eyed for a moment before she blinks and seems close to perfect. Stiles would wonder how she does it, but he has a feeling that’s a secret he’ll never be privy to. “Go eat and stop wallowing.” She points at the door. “You’ll feel better when your stomach’s full. Besides. We all need to talk.”

“You should consider getting a whiteboard,” Stiles muses on the way down the stairs. “It would make life simpler when we have to plan things out. Or I need to write up a timeline of what I think really happened now that most of the cords are back in place.” He catches his lower lip in his teeth; he doesn’t want to talk about Peter just yet.

“You do realize that if we all remember it, you don’t necessarily need to tell us what we should remember,” Derek points out.

“But you all remember the pieces. I, hopefully, remember now why I cut the cords I did, and I might be able to make it make more sense. Like when Maynard came into the picture, which was earlier than I knew. But not earlier than I suspected.” He glances at Derek as they walk into the kitchen side by side. “He was in the hospital when my mom was there. I think she cut him out, which is why he didn’t know which kid was the Weaver. When he came back, he knew it had to be a human, and it probably wasn’t Allison since she’s an Argent, so he went after me and Lydia and Danny. Which is when I started really cutting things up.”

The others drift in as Stiles makes eggs and Derek puts waffles through the toaster, buttering them as soon as they pop and tossing them onto plates. Scott digs through the freezer and finds sausage links, using the microwave to warm them up, while Danny pushes everyone else away from the coffee maker and takes care of setting that up, along with a cup of cocoa for Isaac.

There are too many people in the house to all sit at the kitchen table, so after Molly is settled in her chair, they arrange themselves around the room, some sitting and some leaning, as they eat. Stiles digs the Tylenol out of the cabinet and swallows two pills with a glass of milk, and prays they take effect quickly. He has a feeling the tension for the day is only just beginning.

“So where do we start?” Allison asks. “Am I the only one who feels like they’re drowning in new information?”

“Definitely not,” Danny tells her. “There’s a lot to get my head around. I want to write it down, and I want to pick Stiles’s brain, fit the timeline he knows around the notes we’ve got.”

“How about if you outline what you’ve got, and I’ll fill in the blanks when my head doesn’t hurt,” Stiles suggests. “I’m not sure I’m really fit for much other than eating and staring into space right now. I have to remember that using that much weave takes it out of a person.”

And that…

_That_.

He knew this… he knows he _knew_ this, but at the same time, he didn’t fully consciously _get_ it until this moment, at least not that he let himself remember. “Mom,” he whispers, as his plate falls from his fingers, and he slides to the floor.

“Daddy?” Molly climbs down from her chair and crawls into his lap. “Are you okay?”

His mouth opens, then closes. “I’m… I’ve never been in her head. And I’ve never seen this, so I can’t be sure, but I don’t think my mom had _cancer_. Not exactly. She was… she was perfect, back before the fire. Then she got Derek and Laura out of Beacon Hills and cut them off, leaving them in NYC, and she came back here. And suddenly she was dying. And Maynard was there, and I think… I think… I don’t know _why_. I don’t know why he cared about the Hales, except that the Hales were linked to the Weavers once and maybe he was forcing them apart. But she was protecting you, and protecting herself, and Maynard probably gave her an ultimatum like he gave me, and she tried to… she tried to fight back. And then she died. And one of the last things she did was cut him out _again_.”

Stiles is not sure he’s making sense, but he can see the sequence brightly in his own mind. He gathers in a deep breath and lets it out slowly because Molly is still looking at him worriedly, as if she has no idea what’s going on, so he gives her a hug as Danny crouches down next to them, cleaning up the broken plate and spilled waffles. 

“I’m okay,” he says. “I promise. I just… I need to be more careful.”

“Yes, you do.” Lydia’s words are clipped. “You are _not_ to martyr yourself for our sake, or your daughter’s. She won’t appreciate growing up without you. Nor are you to go off half-cocked without planning, nor should you work on your weave—whether it is fixing the squiggle or delving into past connections—without ensuring that you have plenty of energy and someone nearby in case it looks as if you are going too far.” She smiles at him sweetly. “I would be happy to spot you any time you need and knock you unconscious if it would be better for you than continuing.”

“I love you too, Lydia,” Stiles murmurs, with a small smile. She makes a small sniffing sound, and his smile grows.

“No one is overextending,” Derek says plainly. He offers a hand to Stiles, pulling him to his feet and ushering Molly back to her chair. She sits carefully, her attention more on Stiles than on her breakfast, and he brushes a kiss against the top of her head, hoping to help her settle.

But when Derek tugs, Stiles goes willingly, pulled back against his chest, letting arms fold around his center. There is a momentary pause, forks stilled over plates, conversation stopping, before the world begins to move again as if nothing strange has happened. Stiles supposes it has been coming long enough, and everyone remembers that _something_ happened so many times before, that it seems normal now.

“Lydia, you’ll be pack liaison,” Derek says. “You have contact information for the primary alpha of the Maynard pack in the east. Contact them—”

“Her.”

Derek nods at the clarification. “Contact her and find out if this is sanctioned behavior. I want to know if this the action of the family as a whole, or solely this smaller pack. I expect you to be circumspect; we don’t need them to know we are under siege or that we are in a weakened state. They might choose to take any advantage they see, whether it was originally sanctioned or not. Danny…”

Danny glances up. “I’m writing up Stiles’s notes, remember?”

“Can you give those over to Scott and Isaac? If they’re coherent enough, pass them along. I need you to find out where the Maynards are staying now that we forced them out of the one house. I also need to know how many are in his pack.” Derek’s grin bares teeth. “How many are still left, that is.”

“I can call my father,” Allison offers. She spreads her hands. “I’m part of this pack, so as far as I’m concerned, they’ve already done enough that I don’t have to worry about the code. Since they’re after his baby girl, I’m pretty sure he’d agree. We can probably pull in my family and get some firepower that way, which is handy since they’re on the other side of the wards.”

“With Boyd,” Scott points out. “He’s still out there somewhere, and he can help us from the other side.”

“I’ll try to get my dad in touch with him,” Allison says. “I want to let him know what’s going on, and what he’s been missing.” She wrinkles her nose. “He’s not going to like it, Stiles. Do you think you cut anything of his out?”

“I’m sure I did.” Stiles can’t remember exactly everything that came back yet; it’s all still jumbled up in his head. “I tried to reach out to him and to Scott’s mom when I was putting things back.”

Danny reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone, not glancing at the number before he answers. “Hello?” His eyes go wide, and he looks at Stiles. “You’re at the _airport_ and you want a ride?”

“Who is it?” Stiles looks from Scott to Isaac, then twists to look over his shoulder at Derek. “Why do you all look like you’ve seen a ghost?” He wishes he could hear the other side of the conversation, since the wolves are obviously listening as intently as Danny.

“Jackson.” Danny pauses. “Yes, I was talking to Stiles; you know your own name, last I knew. We can’t come get you, and we’re behind wards right now and can’t exactly let you in the house. I need to put you in touch with Boyd.” He goes silent, then smiles wryly. “Sure, yes, I can let you talk to the little shit.”

Which has to be Stiles. He reaches out for the phone before Danny offers it, wincing as he sifts through his memories, picking and choosing the ones of Jackson and trying to make them all make sense. The details are gone, but he remembers the gist of it now that he’s had some sleep.

“I’m sorry.” He figures no matter what, those have to be the first words he says.

“You little shit,” Jackson growls. “You told me all about that thing you do, then you _did_ that thing you do and I left without having any idea what I was leaving behind. You’re a dick, Stiles.”

“Love you too, Jackson.”

“Don’t even get me started.”

Stiles sighs. “What are you doing back here? And why _now_?”

“Because last night my mind flooded with things I’d forgotten, and I realized that some of the faces I’ve forgotten have been sniffing around me and Felicity.” Jackson’s voice is flat. “And I knew it all traced back to you, Stilinski.”

“It’s not just me. It’s us.” Stiles chews on his lower lip. “I only tried to erase the connection. The actual blood? Is still there. Can’t change that.”

“Pity.”

“You are such an ass, Jackson. It’s nice to see nothing’s changed.” Stiles holds out the phone and Danny takes it back. It’s only a moment before the conversation ends and Danny slides the phone back into his pocket.

“Can’t wait to hear this one,” Isaac says.

“Jackson’s my cousin.” Stiles figures there’s no point in sugar-coating it. “The only people who ever knew were me, Danny, Jackson, and possibly the Maynards. Danny was helping Jackson look into his birth parents after he came back from London.” He can almost see the pack looking into their own memories, finding the restored memory of Jackson coming home that summer.

“Danny found some buried information that didn’t match up with anything that people actually remembered, and it was suspicious. My guess is that my mom started the process of erasing Jackson’s connection with the Weavers after the accident.”

“Stiles.” Lydia taps a fingernail against the table. “Begin at the beginning and tell the story without going in circles, please.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Jackson’s mother was a Weaver. She was my mother’s cousin, and her parents were already dead and gone. When his parents went out one night with Jackson, the car crashed, and Jackson was the only survivor. A miracle baby, and I think my mom managed to get my dad to have him adopted out and she cut the cord so no one remembered who his parents were. Danny found some obscure records that showed that Jackson’s birth mother was related to my mother and brought that to me, and I realized what was probably going on. Or what might have happened. Weavers die. Weavers die all the time, and I didn’t want Jackson to be targeted, especially since he was already a werewolf and didn’t seem to be able to see the weave at all, so I cut him out and he left Beacon Hills to search for his birth parents. Which I figure he’s been doing for the last five years.”

“He went to college in Minnesota,” Danny offers. “We’ve actually been in touch on and off.”

“Which means that cord didn’t stay cut, either. I don’t think it works as well with people with Weaver blood,” Stiles muses, filing that away to put in the eventual instruction book. “Who’s Felicity?”

“The girl he’s been dating for the last three years,” Danny says. “And she’s with him here.”

“So we’ve got one more asset on the outside and one liability. Unless she’s a wolf, too?” Stiles glances at Danny, who shakes his head. “Hunter? Magical being of some kind? Liability then.” He pushes his fingers through his hair. “Jackson, Boyd, the Argents. And finding out how many there are, where they are, and if it’s sanctioned and if we’re going to start some kind of a werewolf war. Does that sound about right? Does everyone have their assignments?”

“What are you going to do?” Derek’s question rumbles in his chest where Stiles still leans. He realizes that Derek hasn’t loosened his hold, as if he won’t set Stiles free until he’s assured that he’s doing something sane for once.

“I’m going to go talk to our jailers,” Stiles says. “And make sure I haven’t forgotten anything else important.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! It's very early morning at the campground, and while my internet was blazing when I first woke up, now that I've finished breakfast the little hitches and bumps are already starting to form. *sighs* It's tough to keep up on fandom when I can't load a tumblr page!
> 
> ANYWAY. So there you go, one of the two questions has already been answered, and Stiles is still very definitely thinking about the other question. Me, I need to go spend a day writing now and crank out another chapter to rebuild my buffer. I wish I could just write all the remaining chapters, but I also have three (big) things due by the end of September. Eek! 
> 
> The next part will post on Sunday, September 8th, hopefully in the midst of an awful lot of writing sprints and word making. Thank you for all your lovely comments and hello to the new readers and new commenters and thank you so much to all the ones who've been with me since the beginning. You are all AWESOME!!


	37. Chapter 37

Derek doesn’t give him the option of going outside alone, and that’s fine with Stiles. This is going to be the first time he sees Del since he let it all come back, and he likes the idea of having someone to lean on while the past sinks in.

He waits until Derek is out the door before he pushes it shut, touching the weave that lies tight against the house and tying a few knots for safekeeping. Then he turns around and simply sits on the front step, feels Derek fit in behind him, knees to either side of Stiles, a quiet show of solidarity. It’s exactly the same as when Derek stands behind him, except it’s not. It’s _more_. It’s no longer just pack, but also the strength of all of their attempts at a relationship coming through, becoming whatever it is _now_.

He sees the difference in the way Del looks at him, her smile swift and feral. “Did she know?” Del asks curiously. “Did she know that when you fucked her, you were thinking of him?”

Derek’s fingers are tight against his sides, and Stiles breathes deep. She is trying to needle him, and even if her barbs go deep, they don’t mean anything unless he lets them. “Cass couldn’t know something I didn’t consciously remember.” It’s a lie, but he forces his heart even because the lie is only partial. He hadn’t remembered most of it, hadn’t known about more than that one time. And he’d thought it was all him, never Derek. It made it easier, that way.

Stiles makes himself look away from the petite werewolf, scanning the sidewalk for anyone else. It takes a moment to spot the hunter off to one side, hands loose and easy at his side as if he’s just there, watching. Stiles knows better. After years of knowing Allison he can assume that there are knives up his sleeves, a bow ready somewhere for him to pull out and bring to bear faster than Stiles can think. “Are they the only two?” he murmurs, and Derek nods against him, fingers pressing in lightly in response. “Good. At least we’re not besieged by an entire army.”

“I can see how important he is to you.” Del stalks along the sidewalk, body nearly pressed up against the side of the wards, fingers trailing lightly against the barrier she must be able to feel. “Try to imagine what it would be like if I killed _him_. If I ripped his throat out and let him bleed while he tried to say what he felt, tried to gurgle the words as the blood dripped over his chin.”

Stiles remembers this, remembers the look on Cass’s face as she hung from Del’s claws. He remembers that swift look of _betrayal_ , a look that Stiles took to heart because it was _all his fault_. He swallows hard against the freshness of the memory, the way it shines so brightly behind his eyes now that the cords are back, thick and strong. “He’s an alpha,” he manages to say, voice shaking. “You can’t kill him so easily.”

“I wasn’t talking to _you_ , Weaver.” As quiet as her voice is, it is pointed, and Derek growls when she says it.

“Don’t.” Stiles puts his hand over the one that lies against his hip. He can feel Derek’s tension, the low growl that hasn’t stopped yet. He suspects Derek is moments from pouncing. “She’s psychopathic. As bad as Peter, maybe worse.”

“How _is_ Peter?” Del’s voice is louder now, her smile sharp. “Oh _wait_ , he’s gone, isn’t he? What a pity. He was the only Hale with any sense. Such a good friend. I remember him fondly.”

“What?” It is Stiles’s turn to stiffen, to freeze there in Derek’s arms. He digs deep, falling into his memories again, not caring that Del is _right there_ because he has Derek behind him and holding him stable. He needs to get past those burnt out cords, needs to find what he cut away. Because he is certain that somehow, Del _knows_ and he doesn’t understand how that can be true because the cords are _gone_.

Written records must exist, a paper trail that wasn’t burnt when the connections were cut. He’ll have to have Danny look into it, find the idiosyncrasies in _that_ so that they can figure it out. Because if Del knows, then it’s important.

“She’s trying to get to you.” Derek’s tone is calm, but his fingers are tense as he reminds Stiles. The words don’t help, not this time, but Stiles tries his best to push it away.

“I’m okay.” That is definitely a lie, but Stiles doesn’t care that they can tell. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now… I need to sort through what I _can_ remember, see if there are any chinks in their armor.”

“You do know that now that you remember, we remember, too.” Del stops moving, her hand still up, claws out, digging as she runs her hand over the weave. Stiles doesn’t want to feel it, so he keeps his mind out of the wards, trusting that they are safe and strong. “We remember your mother. Your poor, dear father. Your mother’s cousin Emily. She was such a sweet, dear woman, so easy to surprise, so insecure in her talents. They were never strong in that branch, but you never know when talent might come back. We would have taken her son, raised him to be loved, but he disappeared.” She bares her teeth. “Why do I suspect that you know what happened to him?”

“He’s not a Weaver. By blood yes, by magic, no,” Stiles says quietly. “He never would have been any use to you.”

“He carries the blood,” Del hisses. “We could have bred him. He would have made children for us, children with your talent. He would have been a _Maynard_ , and he would have been _ours_.”

“Would you have left me and my mom alone then?”

That sharp grin widens. “We would have killed you. Gutted you and bathed in your blood.”

“You are a psychotic vicious beast.” Stiles shivers at the imagery, and he is glad they never got their hands on Jackson. He and Jackson might have had their issues over the years, but he wouldn’t wish that life on anyone. “Why do you want all the Weavers dead? Doesn’t it make it more difficult for you to find one of your very own to collect?”

“They don’t want to have someone like you against them,” Derek murmurs. “She’s afraid of you. She’s been afraid of you since you were just a child.”

“She’s afraid of Molly,” Stiles whispers in return. Although truth is, Stiles is a little afraid of what Molly could do out of sheer good intentions. They need to have a talk, and very, very soon. Now that he knows what he accomplished before he had any idea what he was doing, how he just willed people to forget and subconsciously cut cords he didn’t know were there, he wonders what a four-year-old in a snit fit could accomplish. It’s not a pretty image.

It occurs to him then that as young as Molly is, she’s too old for them, too. She has a big personality, fierce and strong despite how tiny she is, and it won’t be easy for them to brainwash her into thinking that they are her only family, not unless someone cuts out old memories. Which could be done, of course. He drags in a breath and lets it out slowly.

“What are we doing out here?” Derek’s hand slides up his side, then down again to his hip, anchoring Stiles in the here and now.

“Remembering.” Stiles can feel it all behind his eyes. “I know them all now. I know Del… I know how many times she attacked us, and I remember cutting some of those cords out because Cass was afraid, and we needed her not to be afraid. We needed her to be calm, and ready to run, so we could help Molly. There was this one time when Del bit her, and Cass was terrified. It was the first time, and it was when I had to explain everything. At least, everything that I knew and could remember. I told her about werewolves, and about Beacon Hills, and I told her that I thought something had been happening for a long time, but I wasn’t sure, and I told her that we were in danger. I told her that I was positive Del wasn’t an alpha, and that it was just a nasty bite, and she’d heal, but it would take time. And I told her that we needed to leave our home behind, grab Molly, and run.” His voice drops low. “I told her I could make her forget the connection to Del, that she wouldn’t remember the attack but she’d remember everything between _us_ , and she told me to do it. When we ran, she didn’t know exactly why we were running, but she trusted me.” His fingers flex, then turn to fists. “She always trusted me.”

“Aww,” Del coos. “What a sweet story.”

“It wasn’t for you.”

“Wasn’t it?” Del leans in against the barrier. “You want me to know how strong you are, Weaver. You want me to fear you, and it isn’t going to happen.  I will never fear you, because I can _end_ you. I can take that whisper of life in your chest and crush it, and no matter what our alpha says, I believe that is the best option. You are more trouble than you are worth.”

“Not as long as I’m sitting on this side of the wards, you can’t.” He fights to keep his voice reasonable, when Derek is now standing, and Stiles can feel him even without opening his mind to the weave. He can feel the tension radiating off of him, feel the way he seems ready to attack. “We’re at stalemate. You can’t win without breaking the wards, and we can’t do anything without risking ourselves. You know it and we know it, and you can’t convince us to come out and _play_. We’re not idiots, Del.” Stiles tries to imitate that sharp smiles all wolves seem to have, all teeth and anger. “The best part is that the one thing you need on your side in order to get through is someone like me, and you don’t even have that.”

“You’ll starve soon.” Del examines her claws, buffing them lightly. “You’ll starve, or you will tear each other apart. You can’t survive for long in there, and you will have to venture out, and you’ll make your choice. Give me your daughter.” Del blinks before slowly smiling. “I know you’ve already made that decision, Weaver. I know there is _nothing_ more important to you than her.” Her head cocks, considering him. “Except for perhaps _him_. Would you give your life to keep them both alive? Perhaps that’s what we need, new blood in our pack. Make this simple… we settle in here, live in Beacon Hills. Your alpha gives himself to us, sacrifices his power to us, and we take him as our beta. All of them.” She shrugs. “It would be easy to assimilate them; there is always use for another set of claws, another bow, another pawn in the game. We’d even let your humans live.”

“No.” Derek’s voice is lower than usual, made rough through his bared, sharp teeth. He shakes his head. “No.”

“Then do something about it.” She crooks her finger. “What kind of alpha stands behind the barrier his human made? You are _hiding_. You are no _alpha_ , you’re just a scared puppy.”

“Don’t.” Stiles stands quickly, tangling his fingers in Derek’s and squeezing. “She’ll bait us both. We don’t need to give in.”

“Imagine blood through your daughter’s hair.” Del’s voice sing-songs as she sways slightly. “The thick red drying to rust, flowing around those pale red curls. Imagine the light going out of her eyes, the curiosity falling by the wayside. I will drink her energy in, and I will destroy her. And through her, I will destroy you.”

“Did you have a reason to want to be out here for much longer?” The teeth have receded, and Derek’s voice is even again, at its usual pitch. “Because either I’m going to rip her throat out with my teeth, or we’re going back inside.”

“We can’t do anything fast enough to keep you alive.” Stiles keeps his voice steady. “So that’s going to have to wait. But when the time comes, Del’s all yours, I promise. Just do me the favor of making it _hurt_.” Scott wouldn’t approve, he knows, but Stiles also knows that this is going to have to be a permanent ending. This has been going on for far too long. “Go on.”

Derek tugs at his hand. “Come with me.”

“Just give me one more moment.”

Stiles is aware that Derek ignores his request, that he doesn’t even give him the illusion of privacy. Instead, Derek stands in front of the door and waits, watching as Stiles crosses the lawn, stopping at the very edge of the wards, just out of reach of Del’s claws. He holds his hand up and flattens it out, letting his fingers slip into the weave and feeling the warmth of it around him.

She growls, and Stiles starts to laugh.

“Do you know what you did to me?” Stiles keeps his voice low as he looks at her, waits for her to look at _him_ and meet his eyes. She bares here teeth, snarling, and it doesn’t affect him, not anymore. “You have a thing about blood,” he says quietly. “You love it, don’t you? The taste, the texture, and I bet your eyes are blue. So very bright, bright blue. Here’s the thing that I don’t think you’ve realized yet: I’m not afraid of you. I remember everything now. I remember all the times you attacked me, all the times you followed me, all the times you’ve threatened and hurt people I care about. I _know_ that in your heart, you want me dead, not because of what I am but because _he_ cares more about having me in his pack than he cares about you. Because if he cared about _you_ , he’d let you kill us both. He’d let you do exactly what you want and bathe in our blood and dance in the light of the full moon knowing that you had destroyed the last of the Weavers. And it gets under your skin, doesn’t it? Knowing that he wants me more than you. That he wants Molly more than you. That in the end, you are just his _mate_ and that isn’t as important to him as having the rarest of magical people that he can find. He says he loves you, doesn’t he? But he doesn’t, and you know that in your heart, and that just makes it all worse. But he’s still your alpha, and you can’t raise one claw against us until he tells you to. I could walk through this barrier and you could take me back to him, but you couldn’t kill me. I know how that works, Del. I know _what_ you are, and I know _who_ you are, and I know that in some strange way, I am safe in your hands.”

He takes a deep breath, waits for that moment when her eyes flash blue, and he smiles then. “I’m a weapon that he wants, and the best part is, think about his point of view… when he gets me, the first person he can use me against is _you_. And tell me, do you trust him not to do that?”

Stiles takes two swift steps back; even knowing the barrier will hold, it is terrifying to see the way Del launches herself at him, claws and teeth bared, ripping into something that she cannot see. He has to keep his mind out of it, not even touch the weave, because he doesn’t want to feel that fury. Instead he turns his back on her, hears the growl of frustration at his audacity. He walks with careful even steps back to the house, past Derek and through the door that Derek holds open. He only lets himself relax, sagging against Derek as arms go around him once the door is closed.

“Was there a point to that?” Derek asks.

“She’s unbalanced.” Stiles leans into him, pressing his face into Derek’s shoulder, liking the way arms go around him and hold him tightly. He sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly, trying not to let stress overwhelm him. “Also, since I reconnected the threads, she knows more, and I was hoping that if I could get her off-balance I could find out some of it. Pieces that we don’t know, or things we need to look into. Like Peter.”

“What about Peter?” Derek strokes a hand down Stiles’s back, and it’s all he can do not to arch into it like a cat. They’re in the middle of the _living room_ and Stiles is all too aware of the other wolves in the house.

He can hear the confusion in Derek’s voice as he mentions his uncle. Stiles does his best to explain something that’s still missing from his own mind. “Peter… I don’t know. See, that’s the whole big problem is that I don’t know what happened there, and I didn’t know before I went outside that it might be connected to them. And didn’t she sound… _friendly_ when she asked after him?”

“She did.” Derek goes silent for a long moment. “Did you do something?”

“I think so.” It isn’t easy for Stiles to explain. “I can’t find him. I remember talking to both him and you, and then he’s just gone. Not as if he never existed, the old connections are still there. But he just _stopped_ somewhere in there, like something big was erased, and I can’t even find the edges to try to bring it back yet.”

“Do you think we need it back?”

“I think we need it all back.” And that’s what worries Stiles the most, that he might have hidden the solution from himself because he didn’t know it was something helpful in the first place. “I think that everything that was broken needs to come back, whether it was me that did it, or my mom, or my grandfather. Even if we can’t find the thread, we need to find the record, the inconsistency, the puzzle piece that lets us put it together. It’s all there, like the records we found about Jackson’s mom. And I think if we can see the big picture, it’ll make sense. The problem is, everything I did—except for Peter—is back now. The rest of this is different. I’ve been bringing things back that aren’t mine, but I can’t do it consciously because I don’t even know where to look.”

“That’s why we’re a pack.” Derek slides one hand beneath Stiles’s chin, thumb pressing up as fingers curl around his neck. He kisses his jaw, then the spot behind his ear, then makes his way to Stiles’s mouth. “All of us,” he says quietly. “We’re all in this with you, and we’ll research and we’ll figure it out. You’re not alone in this anymore. Go add this to Danny and Allison’s lists, and have them see what they can find. We’ll get all the data, and we’ll put it together.”

“I think when we find the beginning—the real beginning—we’ll be able to untwist it properly,” Stiles says.

“I think when we find the beginning, we’re going to find the Maynards there.” Derek kisses him again. “Go on. The sooner you get started the sooner this will get done.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so glad I set up a reminder to remind me to post on Sundays because I am so wrapped up in trying to force my way through my TW BB that I almost forgot and that would've been BAD. Anyway! Here you go! Happy Sunday and now I'm off to do more writing. I need to finish assignments so I can buckle down and just write the last 10-20k of this and get it all posted for y'all. I will miss this one when it's done, I really will.
> 
> The next part will post on Sunday, September 15th. Thank you all for reading and for being here with me and for your incredible comments!


	38. Chapter 38

Stiles talks to Danny and Allison, then leaves them in Danny’s room on the speakerphone with Chris Argent, both talking over each other as they give him a steady stream of information. It makes Stiles feel a bit naked, hearing his life laid out like that, but he can hear the understanding in Chris’s voice as he seems to follow the path, and connect it to his own recent memory return. Stiles waves at the phone and calls out a hello before he leaves them again.

When he gets back to the living room, Molly tackles him and Stiles goes down laughing, rolling with her on the floor, tickling her as she growls and giggles. He lies on his back and lifts her up, then pulls her down into a hard hug, letting her burrow against him. It helps to see her smiling like this; it lets the stress lift away. “You’ve been having fun with Isaac and Scott, right, baby?” he asks.

“I like them a lot. Isaac has a funny growl. Do it.” She pushes away from Stiles and races over to grab Isaac’s knees where he sits on the sofa with Scott. She peers up at him. “Growl, Isaac. I want Daddy to hear you growl.”

“I’ve heard Isaac growl plenty of times…”

“Not like this.” Scott’s expression is amused, almost a smirk but fond at the same time, his arm across the back of the sofa behind Isaac. “Trust me, you haven’t heard this.”

Isaac sighs with a smile, and he leans forward, shaking his head until his teeth and sideburns are visible and he… whines. It’s a high-pitched yip of a growl that almost hurts Stiles’s ears, but it makes Molly laugh delightedly. When she digs her small fingers behind his knee—obviously trying to tickle him—Stiles knows from experience that it can’t be comfortable, but Isaac laughs anyway, and Molly beams.

“I’m beginning to wonder whose pack this is,” Stiles says quietly.

Scott offers a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s always been a bit of a cooperative,” he says. “Packs within packs, or families within packs. It works for us, I think.”

“It does.” Lydia comes in with a bowl of popcorn and sits down on the floor next to Stiles’s chair, offering it to him for a bite. “Our differences make us more stable. That’s what Maynard is looking to build, but we created it organically, in ignorance.”

“Does that make us better than him, or worse?”

Lydia raises both eyebrows, her expression clearly saying _don’t be an idiot_ as Stiles looks at her. “Have we killed anyone or coerced them into the pack?”

“There might have been some strange, extenuating circumstances in the beginning,” Stiles admits. Isaac nods, and Scott makes a face.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “That was before we were a _pack_. Even Jackson came back.”

“Jackson coming back didn’t have to do with pack dynamics.” Stiles leans back in the chair, trying to relax. “That has to do with him remembering that he’s being hunted by a pyschopath because he shares blood with me. And I’m pretty sure he blames me for that, even though I couldn’t have prevented the whole cousin thing, and the hunted thing isn’t my fault either.”

“Him forgetting was.” Lydia waves her hand, cutting off that line of reasoning. “And it doesn’t matter right now. The fact that he’s back is good for us because he creates another anchor point in any equations requiring a Weaver. We have Stiles, we have Jackson, and we have everything on the line in between them solidly battened down.”

“Not exactly.” Stiles reaches down for a handful of popcorn and tosses half of it into his mouth. He starts to speak and remembers Molly just in time, so he chews and swallows and doesn’t talk with his mouth full. “Jackson has absolutely no Weaver talent. I’m pretty sure that he didn’t before he was a wolf, he definitely didn’t after, and as far as I know, he still doesn’t. It makes him a probable carrier, I guess, but not anything that could be an anchor himself. So he’s still a great ally as a werewolf, but he’s not magically useful to us.”

Lydia purses her lips. “Well then, there has to be another way.”

“We have two Weavers,” Scott says. “They just both happen to be here.”

“And Molly’s already very central to the weave in this house.” Stiles gestures at each person in the room. “She’s managed to insinuate herself into your lives so closely that her weave built itself; I didn’t have to do anything. I can solidify it, and I have to help with the wards, but she’s already a part of this pack. She can’t be used as any sort of extra anchor point, and definitely not one outside.” He pauses. “Why do we need an anchor point outside the house?”

“When we finalize the plans for an attack, the wards will need to expand,” Lydia says. “And they will need to expand _quickly_ in order to surround the others coming in. There may be a few of them. We have Boyd and Jackson, but if Allison’s father agrees to bring in the Argents, those will be much-needed reinforcements. It wouldn’t be right to leave them unprotected.”

Stiles’s head aches at the thought of trying to recreate his wards around a nebulous group of people that he only partly knows. “You’re right,” he admits. “But you’re not talking about an easy thing to do.”

“Of course not.” Lydia leans her head against the chair, her hand on his shin, rubbing lightly. “We’ll do everything we can to help, of course. I’ve been working on new designs, but everything points to us needing some kind of a point outside of this house in order to create the same solidity in the weave that you’ve created for here.”

Isaac, Scott and Molly glance at the stairs, and a moment later Stiles hears he steps, slow and heavy. Derek’s voice precedes him, low as he talks on the phone. “Hang on, Jackson. And stop calling him the little shit.” He pauses. “Or a dickwad, or any other insult. We’re working as a pack; try to be civil.”

Derek doesn’t bother to cover the phone as he stands on the bottom step. “We’ve got a complication.”

“What’s a complication?” Molly runs full tilt into him, wrapping her arms around his legs and looking up. Derek’s expression twists comically, and even Stiles can hear Jackson’s voice from the phone asking who the rugrat is. Molly just lifts her arms and waits until Derek picks her up, hitching her onto his hip as he comes into the room.

“A complication is…” he looks from Molly to Stiles to the phone, where Jackson is asking the same question. He puts the phone back to his ear. “Jackson, shut up for five minutes and let me explain your situation. Then you can let Stiles explain his.”

Derek tosses the phone to Stiles. “Jackson’s girlfriend is pregnant. So you’re right, she’s even more of a liability than you thought.”

“She also might be an anchor point,” Lydia says thoughtfully. “Well, the child could. If it’s a nascent Weaver.”

“Is that even _safe_?” Stiles puts the phone to his ear just in time for Jackson to growl. “What?”

“Is _what_ safe?”

“Using your unborn child as an anchor point outside of this house for the solid weave we’ve created as a ward,” Stiles says, not bothering to start at the beginning.

“It would make _her_ safe, as she’d be in the middle of the thickest part of the ward,” Lydia muses. “On the other hand, it would require her to be here when the attack occurs, so that the Maynards would know about the child, so once everything is said and done, if we do not win, she would be at risk. On the other hand, it might be the difference between failing and succeeding, and we fail, she’s likely to be dead anyway, and the child with her.”

“Tell Lydia she’s being too blunt,” Jackson mutters.

“You can tell her when we’re done talking.” Stiles shakes his head. “Holy crap, Jackson, you’re going to be a _father_? Was this planned?”

“No.” The one word is short and sharp and Stiles remembers what that was like, that moment when you know your entire life is changing and you have no idea what to do about it. He can’t help but be sympathetic.

“You won’t be bad at it,” he says quietly. “I mean, if I can do it, anyone can.”

There’s silence on the other side of the phone. In the living room, Derek settles into the other chair with Molly in his lap, chattering. Somehow Scott, Isaac and Derek manage to seem as if they are focusing all their attention on the small girl, and not paying attention to the other side of the phone call that Stiles knows that they can easily hear. Lydia, however, keeps contact with Stiles, squeezing lightly as she doesn’t say a word.

“That little girl, I can hear her talking,” Jackson says. “She’s yours?”

“She’s mine.” Stiles nods, even though Jackson can’t see him. “Molly Stilinski, four years old last spring. There’s more to the story, but some things are better if I tell them to you in person.”

Jackson snorts. “Try me.”

“She’s a Weaver, she’s a werewolf, and she’s a very tiny alpha.” Stiles lets each fact drop like a small bomb. “She has also managed to wrap every single person in this pack around her finger, so if I leave her alone with them long enough, I’m pretty sure she’ll rule the house.”

“And her mother?”

Stiles sees Molly’s ears perk up at that, and he sighs, because he can’t just not say it. “Cass is gone. Molly and I came here after the Maynards attacked all of us, and she and I were bitten, and Cass was…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, letting Jackson fill in the word for himself.

“You’re a wolf now too?”

Stiles laughs. “No. I wove it out, but I couldn’t do it for both me and Molly at the same time, and I needed to protect her. I wasn’t exactly thinking straight at the time. She’s an amazing kid, Jackson, and she’s changed my life. How’s… crap, what’s your girlfriend’s name?”

“Felicity. And we’re good, even if things are complicated.”

“Did she know about your furry little problem?”

“Actually, yes. She didn’t know about my asshole cousin until recently, though.”

Stiles makes a face. “I can’t keep apologizing for that one.”

“He said a bad word,” Molly pipes up, and Stiles laughs when Jackson growls. Molly just shakes her head. “Tell him it’s not nice to growl at people, Daddy,” she chides.

“He can hear you, baby,” Stiles tells her.

“So what does it mean, making the baby into a… what did you want to do?”

Stiles can hear the resignation in Jackson’s voice, the recognition that this is somehow part of the pack politics, and something he needs to listen to. They are all falling back into their roles, and it surprises him that he knows he can rely on Jackson, even if they don’t get along.

“Lydia and I have been working with the weave,” he explains. “She’s been taking what I do and making it into a mathematically stable formula, so that when I create the weave, it has anchors and stretches and gives with the people involved. We’re trying to make it portable, and take the ward we’ve created around the house to keep the Maynards out and extend that over the people who aren’t here. So if you and Boyd and the Argents mount an offensive against the Maynards, we can protect you. The problem is, it needs some kind of an anchor. I put a shield on Allison when they were rescuing me recently, but it faded after time. Having an anchor should allow it to remain stable as long as it needs to be.”

“And the risks?” Jackson’s voice is tight. “Felicity is _very_ pregnant. About eight months.”

“The biggest risk is that I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” Stiles admits. “And I’d be doing it from a distance, and honestly, I’d try to use you as an anchor as well since I know it’s in your blood even if you can’t use it. When I use what I do, I get hungry and tired, which means it’d be a draw on Felicity. I’d recommend she tank up before we get started, and carry protein bars and sports drinks and just keep eating.”

“If I’d asked you to do this when your girlfriend was pregnant, would you have done it?” Jackson’s voice is flat, and the question stops Stiles so that he has to think.

“I don’t know,” he has to admit finally. “Jackson, I did everything I could to protect the pack, but I tried to take it all on my own shoulders. I didn’t want anyone else to get hurt, and I didn’t want to risk anyone else at all if I could avoid it. This would be a risk, definitely. She might go into labor. Your baby—”

“My son,” Jackson corrects him.

“Your son could go into distress.” Stiles can’t be anything other than blunt.

Lydia taps his foot. “I know someone who knows an OB/Gyn who could be with her, just in case. Have a vehicle and supplies available, all the things we might possibly need in case of an emergency delivery. We’ve been friends for years, and I would trust her with my own child.”

“Would _you_ do this if you were pregnant?” Stiles asks her, because there is no other question to ask.

“In a heartbeat,” Lydia admits. “I trust you.”

“I don’t know how I’d feel if it were Allison,” Isaac says, and he won’t look at Stiles. His hand is twisted with Scott’s.

“Dude, I trust you, but that’s… I don’t know,” Scott admits. “I’d leave it up to Allison, I think. Because that baby would be a part of her body, so she’s going to be affected. I don’t like the idea, though. Not at all.”

Neither does Stiles. He tries to imagine when Cass was pregnant, her body swollen before Molly was born. And he tries to imagine asking this of her. “I don’t like it either,” he says quietly. “I’d rather try to use Jackson as an anchor and see what happens with that.”

“Is there any way you can do it with my son where it wouldn’t affect Felicity or the baby?” Jackson’s voice is low, and Stiles can hear the thickness of his teeth.

“I don’t know.” Stiles shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know. This shit doesn’t come with an instruction book; we’re writing it as we go along.”

“Then no.” Stiles can hear the finality in Jackson’s tone.

“Fine.” And it is fine, although at the same time, it isn’t… they need to find other options and Stiles has no idea how to do that short of sneaking out the door and putting himself out there somewhere. But they have to find a way to keep the pack safe.

All of the pack. No one will be sacrificed.

“We’ll call you again when we figure out exactly what’s going on, and how many people are involved,” Stiles says quietly. “Tell Felicity I’m looking forward to meeting her. And hey… congratulations.”

The mood in the room is somber when the phone clicks quiet. Molly crawls into Stiles’s lap and winds her arms around him, face pressed against his chest. He can’t explain to her exactly what just happened, but he knows it has left him with a vaguely sick feeling in his gut, and the realization that he has absolutely no idea how to go forward from here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Sunday! I'm remembering early today, which is a miracle since I was up at midnight finishing up the drafts for chapters 41 and 42 last night. *grins* ANYWAY. Here you go! I hope you've enjoyed the latest installment. Thank you all for being here and for your incredible comments. You all mean more to me than you know.
> 
> The next chapter will be up on Sunday, September 22nd. See you then!!


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: This chapter contains canon-typical gore and violence.

They spend the rest of the day researching, much of it either online or making notes or dragging out every old white board and bulletin board they can find from the attic. In the end, the wall of the living room is covered in notes and ideas and little arrows pointing from one thing to another. After a night’s rest, they wake up and do it all over again with frequent breaks to try to keep Molly from getting too stir crazy (and Scott insists that it’s good for Isaac, too). 

By that night, Stiles’s head is spinning and he can’t handle any more information. He leans on the table after eating, head bowed in his hands, muttering to himself as he tries to figure out what needs to be done next. “We still need to find an anchor point outside of here.” He lays one finger on the table. “We need to make a plan for how to work with the Argents, but Chris hasn’t called us back to say how many there are. The Maynards—”

“This is not an official action,” Lydia interjects. “I heard back from their Alpha finally today, and she disavows any relationship to what Maynard is doing. It is not pack related, nor is it pack condoned. She states that it is completely within the rights of the Hale pack to take retribution against him for his actions.”

“And if we kill him?” Derek asks.

“I specified that that is the expected outcome.” Lydia shrugs one shoulder. “She suggested that October is a good time for her to travel so that she could come out here and discuss further alliance between her pack and ours for the future. Particularly if we have any interest in any members of the Hale pack taking up future residence in the northeast.”

“In other words, she’s aware that Allison’s been living there and we’ll hammer things out officially this fall,” Derek says dryly. “But she won’t come after us for killing off her problem splinter pack.”

“Maybe she’ll even thank us by offering protection to the Hale pack in the northeast.” Stiles traces something on the table with his fingertip. “What else am I forgetting?”

“You need a break.” Lydia touches his shoulder lightly. “You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends. Go upstairs, lie down. We’ll take Molly into the basement for a movie night.”

Stiles looks up and blinks at her. “My room’s on this floor,” he points out, which he’s sure she should know, since technically it’s _her_ room.

Lydia glances at the rest of the pack, who decide to all start talking at once. Scott picks up Molly and tosses her in the air while she laughs, then passes her off to Isaac to do the same. They leave the room swinging her between them, her giggles high-pitched and gleeful.

It only takes a moment to empty the room, everyone except for Lydia and Derek disappearing into the basement. “Go _upstairs_ ,” she repeats, then turns with a toss of her head and follows the others downstairs.

Derek glances at Stiles, who starts to protest, falling silent when Derek raises one eyebrow. “Oh,” Stiles says. “ _Oh_.”

Derek offers a hand and Stiles takes it, fingers sliding comfortably until they entwine together. It is pre-meditated and deliberate as they walk upstairs, heading for Stiles’s old room. After so many false starts and unexpected moments, it seems strange to plan like this, to know what they will be doing when they reach that space. It isn’t stolen; this time is given to them by the pack, known and allowed. Wanted.

The door closes with a soft thunk, and Stiles touches it. “Pity I can’t make a sound barrier. If magic worked like Harry Potter, I’d put up a privacy spell, so even your wolves couldn’t hear.”

“They have the music on so they don’t have to listen, so you don’t need to worry about scarring them.”

“It sounds like Allison, Scott and Isaac have that down to a science.” They are talking, and Stiles can’t quite figure out how to close the distance between them now that they are alone. His mind won’t settle; he can’t quite let go of everything. “Dude, we still have so much to figure out.”

“We?” Derek gestures at the house in general, then gestures from himself to Stiles. “Or we? Because I think we can get some of that settled right now.”

Stiles licks his lip, then Derek is _there_ before he can even blink, standing right in front of him, hands at his waist, fingers teasing beneath the edge of his shirt. His breath catches, and he struggles to find the rhythm again. “What about—”

“Let it go.” Derek’s fingers go flat agains Stiles’s side, warm against cool skin. He meets him, mouth to mouth, teasing at his lips until Stiles’s tongue peeks out and his mouth opens and lets Derek in. They kiss lazily, Stiles sliding his hands up over Derek’s shoulder, one arm curving so that his hand can cradle the back of Derek’s head, holding him there, enjoying the slow sweetness of it. No one is going to interrupt, and no one is going to take this away. Stiles memorizes the taste of him, cataloging every move and breath, seeing what’s the same as the times before and what’s changed now that every memory is back.

He pulls back finally, and nods at the bed. Derek grins and turns him, pushing him backwards until his knees hit the mattress and Stiles sits, yanking Derek down on top of him. It takes some maneuvering before they manage to stretch out properly lengthwise.

The sense of deja vu hits Stiles hard. “Last time we were doing _this_ , we were wearing pajamas.”

“Last time we’d already forgotten things.” Derek pulls back to straddle him, sitting up so he can push his hands under Stiles’s shirt, sliding it up. There is a part of Stiles that wants to stop him, to say it’s too soon, and another part who wants just strip everything off and take care of things that feel long overdue. And Derek’s words… they just layer on  more guilt.

He helps tug his shirt off over his head, tossing it away and watching as it lands on the floor because it means not meeting Derek’s eyes. “I’m sorry. I fucked so many things up, Derek, and I fucked _us_ up, and some of the time I didn’t even know I was doing it.”

He glances back in time to see Derek skin off his own shirt and Stiles forgets how to breathe, reaching out to touch his abs, fingers skimming across his stomach. He loves the way the muscles jump under his touch, the way he can see so easily how affected Derek is. Then Derek is doing the same thing to him, touching him like he can’t believe it’s true, like Stiles might disappear at any moment, and Stiles doesn’t know _what_ to think.

“You gave them back,” Derek murmurs, his palm going flat, fingers splayed across Stiles’s stomach. He presses both hands down lightly, thumbs together, fingers curled over his ribs, then slides them up just enough to let his fingers brush against Stiles’s nipples; Stiles has to fight to remember the threads of the conversation, but he can’t let it go, not quite yet.

“Not all of them,” Stiles manages to say. Because Peter is still missing, and it’s a problem that he lost the last part of Derek’s actual blood family.

Derek is the last Hale, just like Stiles thought he was the last Weaver. But they can both rebuild. Sometimes it isn’t just about blood; pack counts as family too.

“You gave me back the pack.” Derek curls his body, lowering his mouth the touch Stiles’s collarbone, a soft, dry kiss pressed there, his tongue following the line of the bone afterwards. “You gave me back my family, and you gave me back _you_. We fit, Stiles.” Derek rolls his hips lightly on those words, and Stiles groans, because he can’t deny that. “You and I. We fit, and the pack sees it.”

“I’m pretty sure Lydia just sent us off to get laid.” Stiles smiles slightly and Derek huffs a laugh, because it’s true and they both know it. Then Derek’s mouth finds a nipple, tongue teasing at it until it goes hard and Stiles arches under him with a small sound. Derek hushes him with a kiss, and Stiles apologizes and they both start laughing.

Stiles takes advantage of the laughter to roll them both until he’s on top, hands pressed against Derek’s chest. “I want this,” he says quietly, and he tries to let Derek see just how important it is. “I wanted it before, and I was terrified, and I was an idiot. And I’m not letting you go this time, not for anything. I’ve loved you for too long to lose you again.”

“You’re not going to lose me.” Derek hauls him down for another kiss, hungry and long, not breaking it until Stiles is breathless. “But if you’re taking suggestions, I’m thinking that we both might be more comfortable in less clothes.”

Stiles hears the option in the way he phrases it: they can get undressed, they can stay as they are, or they can go partway there. He leans back and undoes the buckle on his jeans—he can’t deny that he’d definitely be more comfortable without the jeans pressing in on him—and shrugs one shoulder. “Just… don’t be disappointed in me.”

Derek moves his fingers away, tugging down the zip for him, fingers sliding inside the fly to tease at the bulge beneath. “I’m not going to be disappointed, Stiles. I’m going to be the opposite of disappointed. In fact, I’m looking forward to this.”

“You are?”

He raises his hips, and Stiles can’t mistake what he feels as Derek replies, “I am.”

Stiles could try to draw this out. He could let Derek keep doing what he’s doing (because it feels _amazing_ ) or he could just strip. Practicality wins, and Stiles rolls backwards and off the bed, hopping on one foot as he pushes his jeans down and manages to finally kick them away. Derek starts to unzip his own fly and Stiles stops with his boxers halfway down, managing to choke out, “No,” and Derek goes still, eyes shuttering.

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. I mean…” Stiles manages to get his boxers all the way off and he climbs back onto the bed and straddles Derek’s knees. “I want to do it. Please.”

Undressing Derek helps keep Stiles from being self-conscious about his own thin (but at least fit) body, and the way his erection bounces every time he moves. Sex is one of those things that is always intensely awkward and personal and the fact that it is their first time all over again means that it is just as awkward as it would be if they’d never been here. Maybe moreso, with all those memories layering over each other and feeling as if they should be familiar with this, not five years removed from the last time their life together made sense.

He undoes the belt first, then the button of Derek’s jeans, twisting his fingers to pop it free before tugging down the zipper. He grips the waist and pulls, Derek lifting his hips to help so that Stiles can get them partway down his hips before he stops. The dark blue boxer briefs show the bulge clearly, Derek’s cock full and hard and tucked neatly to the left, freed now from his jeans. Stiles presses the heel of his palm against the root and strokes, using the cotton to wrap around as he twists his hand lightly. Derek groans, growling _Stiles_ as his hips lift, rocking into the touch, and Stiles stops.

“Problem?” he asks, and Derek’s eyes flash red for a moment. His hands fall to Stiles’s hips, fingertips digging in.

“I want to feel you,” Derek growls. “If you’re going to strip me, do it _now_ and stop teasing me.”

Stiles has to admit, Derek’s jeans under his naked bits are _not_ comfortable, and the look of that buckle and zipper is a bit nervous-making in close proximity to his own cock. Undressing quickly is definitely the best option. He nods once and slides back, tugging both the jeans and the boxer briefs with him, watching Derek’s cock bob free.

It occurs to him that there’s a lot more light and more time and just… more… than he’s ever had before with Derek. He meets his gaze, licking his lips. “So…”

“C’mere.” Derek reaches and Stiles slides closer, eyes fluttering closed for a moment when he settles hip to hip with Derek, straddling him comfortably. Derek’s hands stroke down his ass, tugging him until he’s just right. “We fit,” Derek says quietly. “You were worried about it, Stiles, but nothing’s going to change that. There aren’t any pieces missing between us.”

Peter’s name is on Stiles’s lips, but he doesn’t say it. It’s still a big piece missing as far as he’s concerned, but lying here across Derek, dicks sliding with every small motion, Peter is _not_ what he wants to be thinking about. Instead, he just nods, and pulls back, pushing forward to feel that slide of skin on skin again. “I never forgot this,” he whispers. “I couldn’t forget you. That night, in this room… That was the one memory I couldn’t let go. We were still attached.”

He glances at the night stand, and Derek nods once and Stiles has to smile at that, knowing that Derek keeps the lube in the exact same space Stiles used to have it. He pulls it out and spills some into his hand, rubbing his fingers together until it warms, then wraps his hand around Derek’s cock. He strokes it again, just like before, sliding from root to tip, twisting his hand when he reaches the head. He watches Derek as he does it, his lower lip caught in his teeth.

Derek’s eyes roll back, fingers digging into Stiles’s ass as he holds on. “Fuck,” he exhales. “Stiles. You’re trying to kill me.”

“The little death,” Stiles says quietly. “Just let me give this to you, okay, Derek? I just want to get you off first.” It doesn’t do anything to make up for _five years_ , but it does let them reconnect. It lets Stiles _give_ something that he hasn’t been able to do for all that time, and he wants to make Derek feel _good_. He wants to see Derek let go.

Derek groans, head back, body arching. “Yeah.” He manages the one word, hips pressing up, fucking the circle of Stiles’s fingers. “Fuck. You feel good. You _smell_ good. I needed this. Need _you_.”

Stiles watches him—he couldn’t tear his eyes away if he tried. He continues to stroke him, jerking him off slowly, finding the rhythm to match each thrust, pushing down when Derek pushes up, keeping his hand tight and slick. His own cock is thick and hard, a drop glistening at the tip, and he slides slightly against his own hand as he stays nestled close to Derek, reaching between their legs to pull him off.

When Derek starts talking it’s even hotter, a stream of low words that Stiles can barely hear. _Stiles. Oh fuck. God. Don’t stop._ Words he can’t figure out because they run one into the other, slipping and sliding over each other in a stream of hungry need. When Derek’s movements stutter, Stiles strokes faster until Derek cries out, body bowed, streams of white shooting out to land on his chest then to dribble stickily over Stiles’s hands as the orgasm fades. Stiles keeps his hand moving until every drop is wrung out, and Derek falls limply against the bed, breath ragged.

Stiles goes to wipe his hand on the sheets, reaching out only to be caught by Derek, his hand lifted to Derek’s mouth and kissed, tongue sliding against his fingers. He feels that straight down to his dick. “Fuck. Derek…”

“My turn.” Derek places Stiles’s hand on his own still-hard cock. “I want to see you start.”

“Is this a fetish I didn’t know about?” Stiles doesn’t argue, his hand slick with Derek’s fluids. It feels incredible as he moves it along his cock in a practiced motion.

“I thought about it,” Derek admits. “I didn’t forget either. And when I was getting off, I wondered if you were, too.”

“I thought about you when I got myself off, yeah.” Stiles can admit that now, even if it still feels somewhat unfaithful to Cass. “Derek, I…” He groans, head tilting back. “Fuck. Are you going to help me here?”

“What if I said no?” Derek reaches up to touch his cheek, bringing his attention back. “What if I told you I just wanted you to come all over me, get me covered in your scent?”

“Yeah.” Stiles’s hand moves faster. “I’d do it. This is some weird kind of alpha claiming, I’m sure, but I’d do it.” He’s getting closer, hips sliding forward, thrusting into his hand as he fucks his grip. Another low groan and Derek pushes his hand away, fingers sliding through the mix of lube and come. He jerks him roughly, pushing Stiles to the edge and stopping, doing it again and again, waiting until Stiles is shaking over him before he lets him finish. Stiles holds himself up, hands pressed against Derek’s shoulders, head bowed as his body jerks with the force of his orgasm, spilling all over Derek’s skin.

He is boneless and limp afterwards, sliding down to lie next to Derek, curled close to him. He feels sated soul deep for the first time in years, like he’s found the right place and person, and there is nothing that will convince him to move. As Derek’s breath slows, Stiles drifts into sleep.

He is unprepared for the dream that slides into his mind, unprepared to find himself on his knees with a fist tightly twisted in the collar of his shirt, Peter’s voice whispering into his ear. 

“An eye for an eye, they say,” Peter tells him. “An arm for an arm then, or a mate for a mate.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Stiles tells him, the words familiar on his tongue, remembered from years past.

“ _My_ mate,” Peter clarifies. “Her name was Dawn, and she died in the fire. _Derek killed my mate_.”

“No, Kate killed your mate.” Because Stiles knows this by now, he’s heard the story more than once, talked about it late into the night. It’s a memory he lets them keep because it is important to them that it has been shared. “Derek made a stupid mistake of falling for her treachery, but he’s not the one who killed Dawn. Kate was, and you killed Kate.”

“It’s not that simple.” Peter crouches behind Stiles, hand sliding down to his throat, fingers wrapped tightly around him. “I lost my mate, and a dear friend lost his sister. But we can have vengeance now, and we can take Derek’s mate away. When I give you to him, it will not bring back Dawn, but it will make the scales even. An eye for an eye. A mate for a mate.”

“You’re not making sense.” Stiles tries to keep his voice even. That’s how you deal with a psychopath, right? Even though Peter’s been _better_ in recent years, now he’s acting insane again, and Stiles fights to keep everything on an even keel and not show how absolutely terrified he is. From the feel of the grin against his ear, he’s failing.

“Maynard,” Peter says. “Her name before we married was Dawn Maynard.”

In the memory, Stiles tries to shake his head, moving within the confines of Peter’s grip. “It doesn’t mean anything to me,” his past self insists. But _now_ , knowing what he knows, he realizes what this meant, and he has a horrible feeling about what might come next. There aren’t many ways for this to end.

“He wants you,” Peter speaks idly. “I don’t care why… I’ll give you to him. I mean, I hope he’ll kill you. Slowly, painfully, and preferably screaming where Derek can hear you and can do _nothing_ to save you. But even if he wants you alive, you will leave here, and he has promised that you will never remember the Hale pack. You will never remember Derek, and you will never remember your part in this pack.” He twists Stiles’s head to face him, and the smile that Peter gives is chilling. “Nothing could bring her back, but this will give some restitution for damage done.”

In the dream, Stiles knows he needs Derek there. He knows he needs Derek more than anything because he is _still_ a helpless human, still unable to do anything to escape once caught. He almost doesn’t believe it when he hears the growl, but Peter’s laugh confirms the arrival.

“My dear nephew—”

Peter doesn’t get to finish his greeting before Derek is on him, pulling him away from Stiles, who wastes no time getting out of the way. He sees the fight in different layers, through two sets of eyes—now and then. He knows what the outcome has to be, but still he shudders when the end finally comes, Derek standing over Peter’s body, blood dripping from his claws as Derek’s eyes glow red.

Stiles is there before Derek sinks to the ground, knees impacting with a low thud. “Don’t…” Stiles says quickly.

“I killed him. _Again_. We had a second chance and I… I killed him.”

Derek shakes, and Stiles doesn’t know what to do. He knows that if Peter were still alive, Stiles himself might not be. “He was going to… he was…”

“He was going to give you to the guy who’s been following you.” Derek speaks, words short and sharp. “I heard what he said. He betrayed _our pack_ and he would have handed you over to another pack. And if I’d stopped him tonight, he would have kept trying until he succeeded. He wanted you dead.”

“What did he say to you?” Stiles lets his hand touch Derek’s face, takes that fleeting touch for something that still feels so new, like they are tiptoeing their way through a minefield.

Derek gives him a look, eyes bleak. “He told me exactly what he would do to you, if Maynard let him. Exactly how he would tear you apart. How he regretted offering you the bite, because you don’t deserve it. Because I don’t deserve you. He explain in perfect detail everything he wanted to do.”

“And you killed him,” Stiles says slowly.

“And I killed him.”

They both look down at the body, and the Stiles of now knows that there was only one option for the dreaming Stiles. “I can make you forget,” he whispers. “Everything. All of it. I can make you forget that you did this.”

“Nothing can get this blood off my hands.”

Stiles laughs, the sound strained. “I can. Come home with me, and we’ll get you washed up, and I’ll do it if you want. I can take it all away.”

Derek meets his gaze and nods sharply. “Yes.”

Stiles wakes into the darkness, gasping for breath. He feels Derek’s body shuddering, and he shakes him just enough to wake him up, Derek’s arm swinging out to hit him.

“Derek!”

“I killed him. I remember. You cut it out.” Derek gulps, trying for breath, body shaking. “I remember. I remember.”

“I can make it go away again.” Stiles is sure of it, but when he tries to get hold of the cord, tries to sift through the weave around them, he can’t get his fingers around it. He has to be careful, can’t simply rip apart everything he’s put back together. But the thread is hiding somewhere in the weave, tiny and slippery and still a thing that bothers Derek to the core.

He wraps his arms around Derek, holding him close while he shakes. He tries again to grasp the slippery bit of weave, but it eludes him and it is gone. “I can’t do it,” Stiles whispers. “I can’t find it. I can’t make it go away.”

“It’s okay,” Derek tells him, voice still shaky. “It’s okay. I probably needed to know it. It’s a piece of it, isn’t it? Peter’s wife was a Maynard. He was… they were… they were around our family from the beginning. From a long time ago.”

Stiles hadn’t grabbed onto it the same way, hadn’t thought about the families intertwined before Stiles ever entered the picture. But now that he looks, he can see it: Peter fell in love with a Weaver, and when he lost her, a Maynard—this Maynard’s _sister_ , Stiles thinks—stepped in to take her place.

It’s too simple, too neat. 

“He was manipulated,” he tells Derek, who nods in return.

“I think we’ve all been. He may not have you in the pack, but he’s been playing the long game for a long time,” Derek agrees. “Whether it’s condoned or not by his pack back east, they’ve let him do what he wants out here for generations.”

“We need to add this to the board tomorrow.” Stiles puts low emphasis on that final word. “Right now, we should wash up and put some clothes on before my daughter comes to find me.” He glances at the door. “I should probably go downstairs.”

“Lydia knows where you are.” Derek pulls him in, brushes a kiss across his lips. “Molly’s okay. I promise.”

Stiles lets Derek lull him back to calm, so they can both lie there, taking ease in the other’s company. They need it, to find the strength to go forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, I wanted to warn you up front that part of this chapter is pretty violent. I didn't warn about the sex, because the whole fic is NC-17 and I figured y'all would be happy with that bit. :) Also, this chapter is super-sized clocking in at over 4300 words and the longest I've written for the story overall. It's also the last chance for a little respite before we go careening into the endgame so... hope you've enjoyed the interlude bits. *grins*
> 
> Thank you all so much for being here, for reading, for commenting... I appreciate it more than you know. I'm in the middle of writing through the end of this story, and it is eating my brain up (and squeezing out other projects). I am thrilled to be able to share it with you.
> 
> The next part will be posted on Wednesday, September 25th (as long as I don't forget, it's a kind of crazy day).


	40. Chapter 40

They manage to shower and get themselves dressed before falling asleep again, and when Stiles awakens in the morning, Molly has wedged herself between them in the bed and is sleeping peacefully. She stirs when Stiles sits up, and blinks at him before smiling. “Morning, Daddy. Morning, Uncle Derek.” She twists to kiss Derek on the cheek, then slides off the bed. “I want cereal. Danny’s in the kitchen.”

She pads out of the room and Stiles watches his daughter go, perfectly comfortable in this new home. “Somehow I expected more drama than that,” he says quietly.

“About me?” Derek’s hand slides behind Stiles’s head, cradling his neck and tugging him down again to kiss him. “I think I’ve been accepted.”

Stiles has a feeling there may be drama at another time, in those moments when Molly remembers Cass and misses her mother. But Derek isn’t a replacement. He and Cass were never the same in Stiles’s mind, and they’ve both been a part of his life at different times. He hopes Molly understands that.

Then Derek is kissing him again, and Stiles stretches over him, luxuriating in the taste and feel of him and content to forget everything else for a long moment. The sharp rap of knuckles against the door frame pulls them back, and Stiles twists to see Scott standing there, looking anywhere but at them.

“You left the door open,” Scott points out.

“Actually Molly did, but point taken.” Stiles rolls out of bed, tossing the covers back over Derek. “Is everyone up?”

“Up and we’ve got a conference call planned, so you two need to get downstairs. Lydia said you’ve got five minutes before she drags you down there, whether you’re dressed or not.”

Stiles gives Derek a rueful look. “Sounds like it’s back to reality for us.”

“And…” Scott sounds reluctant. “I’m supposed to wait until at least one of you leaves the room. Just in case you get distracted again.”

Derek throws a pillow and the door creaks shut.

Stiles laughs. “There isn’t any point. I have to go downstairs to get dressed anyway. So get your ass out of bed, lazywolf, and I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Another pillow hits the door just as Stiles leaves.

It doesn’t take him long to find something to change into, but Derek still somehow beats him to the kitchen. Derek is at the table with Molly and Danny, while the others have taken up stations in the kitchen. Isaac leans against the counter, Allison to his left and Scott to his right. Lydia sits perched on another counter, a notebook on her lap, pen tapping it. She looks up as Stiles comes in and calls out sharply, “Stiles is here. We can get started.”

“Good.” Chris’s voice comes from the phone that lies on the table.

Stiles drops into the seat that Derek nudges out, glad to see breakfast waiting for him. “Who’s on the phone and Allison, are we on a first name basis with your dad now?”

“You can call me Chris,” he confirms. “I have a few others here with me at the house.”

“I’m here with Jackson,” Boyd’s voice comes out of the phone. “Felicity’s still sleeping.”

“I’ll relay what we need to Melissa,” Chris adds. “She just got off shift a few hours ago, and she’s probably sleeping as well.”

Scott looks at Allison, who shrugs. “I really don’t want to know why you know my mom’s schedule  and sleep habits,” Scott mutters.

“We’re _friends_ , Scott,” Chris says dryly. “And I asked if she could make it to this call and she explained why she couldn’t. Just because we have one McCall/Argent alliance does not mean we are going to have another.”

Scott looks relieved, and Stiles just shakes his head. He does _not_ want to think about parents and relationships. He never really wanted to think about it during that brief period when his dad dated Melissa McCall either, and as much as he wanted Scott as a brother back then, he wasn’t entirely upset when the relationship went nowhere. Parents being _friends_ is a good thing, as far as Stiles is concerned.

“Can we possibly get started?” Lydia taps her pen against the paper. “We have a lot to discuss before we can implement a plan, and I’d like to finish sometime before the phone’s battery dies.”

“I’ve got reinforcements,” Chris says plainly. “I’ve reached out to the Argents at large and other members of the family are coming in. There aren’t many; they don’t want to risk starting a war with the Maynard Pack. But with the assurance that this is a splinter action by this particular Alpha, I feel comfortable that we are not breaking the code. My daughter is a member of the Hale Pack, and you have been attacked. It’s expected that I’ll come to her defense.”

“I can take care of myself, Dad.”

“It’s an expression, Allison. The situation gives me every right to ally with you, and we can have hunters on both sides of the line.”

“We’ve only seen one Hunter with them, but according to what I can find, it’s possible there may be others coming in, if they’re not here already,” Danny interjects. “The one that’s here has a twin, and they have a younger sister they are close to as well. We should count them in when figuring numbers, just in case.”

“I’ll send you a full plan with who I have available and their strengths,” Chris tells him. “You tell us where you need us most, and we’ll be there.”

“When this is done, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about,” Derek says quietly. “From what Stiles has uncovered, there was a formal alliance between the Hales, Argents, and Weavers. It was broken by your father and my grandfather and Stiles’s grandfather, and we need it back in place. It makes us all stronger.”

“We can discuss that when we’re done with the current problem,” Chris agrees. “We’re already allied to a point, and you’ve got my daughter in your pack.”

“I’m in.” Jackson’s voice is tinny and distant. “As a Weaver, I’m in. Boyd caught me up on everything he’s learned from Danny and it sounds like it’s the way we need to go, and it’ll be better if you have more than one Weaver. Even if it’s just the blood.”

“Good.” Stiles gestures with his fork, pausing in eating long enough to talk. “We’ll all talk specifics once we get to a point where we can actually all be in the same place at the same time without wards and dangerous psychos between us.” He glances at Derek, who meets his gaze briefly before looking down at his plate. “Um. Speaking of psychos…”

“This should be interesting.” Isaac looks up, eyebrows lifting. “Are we talking about a particular one?”

“Peter’s dead,” Stiles says quickly. “And no, we’re not discussing it more than that, and no, none of you were there when it happened, so this is all you need to know right now. It was for the good of the pack.”

“Stiles…”

He knows that note in Scott’s voice. That chiding tone that says he’s disappointed and probably would reprimand Stiles if he knew exactly what he was reprimanding him for. But he also knows that in this case, Scott’s _wrong_. “Sometimes death is the right answer,” Stiles says slowly. “You have to trust me on this. It really was for the best. There was no other way out of it. And you need to deal with that right now, because if you think we’re getting out of _this_ situation without blood being spilled, you’re dreaming. This is a pack war. Someone’s going to die, and I’m really hoping it’s them and not me, because they’ve been trying to kill me for a long time now.”

Silence stretches for a long moment before Derek says firmly, “What we need is a plan.”

“The plan is simple: get Maynard and his pack to a place where we can ambush them outside the wards,” Chris says. “The question is where and when.”

“Here,” Stiles says, because he can only see one way out of this. They’re all going to figure it out eventually, and he’ll give them a chance to come to the conclusion themselves, because they’ll yell less if someone says it other than him.

“Why here?” Danny asks. “Wouldn’t it be safer if we lure them somewhere else, so that we have a chance of getting out through the wards while they’re distracted?”

“I don’t want the pack to leave,” Stiles says flatly. “These wards are not coming down until I know we’re safe.”

“I can shoot through the wards,” Allison points out. “If the fight is occurring here, I’m a part of it.”

“But how do we get them here?” Isaac asks.

It looks like no one else is going to put it out there, so Stiles says the obvious. “Bait.”

“What did we talk about?” Lydia slides off the counter to stalk over to Stiles, jabbing her finger at him as she talks. “You are _not_ giving yourself out as bait. You are _not_ risking your life for this. You are _not_ —”

“Lydia.”

She stops as soon as Derek says her name, her mouth closing, lips pursed. She crosses her arms and continues to stare down at Stiles. “I do _not_ approve of this plan.”

“But it’s the right idea.” Derek folds his hands against the table. “I don’t like it either, but it’s the plan that’s going to _work_. The one thing Maynard wants more than anything else is _Stiles_. He wants Stiles, he wants Molly, and he can’t get them without coming here. This isn’t Stiles going off half-cocked, this isn’t him being a martyr. This is a _plan_ and we will have his back the entire time. He’ll be safe.”

“I still don’t like the idea of Stiles being bait.”

“What’s bait?” Molly asks sharply, her brow furrowed. “Is it bad? Is Daddy doing a bad thing?”

“No, it’s fine, Molly, I promise. I’ll be okay.” Stiles tries to reassure her, but that might be entirely the wrong thing to say. She makes a small whimpering noise, and as soon as he opens his arm, she runs over to climb into his lap. “Do you think Derek would let anything happen to me?”

“No,” she says, but she still sounds uncertain and it breaks Stiles’s heart to hear it. 

“It’s part of our plan to make sure we’re safe,” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head. “So they can’t hurt you ever again.”

“If he comes near me, I’m going to _bite_ him.” Molly growls, baring her teeth. “I know I’m not supposed to, but he’s a bad man. Can I bite the bad lady, too?”

“I’d bet Del doesn’t taste good, but you have my permission,” Stiles agrees, and just like that, Molly smiles. She slides from his lap and tugs Scott and Isaac off to the living room, done with the serious parts of the conversation. 

“I’m _not_ going to let anything happen to you,” Derek says firmly.

“Are we still talking strategy or are Stilinski and Hale starting to moon over each other?” Jackson asks. “Yes, I’ve been caught up on _everything_.”

“Shut up, Jackson.” The words don’t have heat behind them, but Stiles feels like he has to say them. “You guys scope out the space around the house, let us know where you’re setting up. Chris, you’re in charge of the outside attack. You’ve got one day, because tomorrow I’m going to call Maynard and let him know I’m giving myself to him to save Molly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Yes, we've begun updating twice weekly as we're rolling into the end of the story. I am anxious to be able to share with you, and I'm glad I can post more often now. It's hard to believe the end is in sight! I'm in the middle of writing the epilogue now (and have discovered Simplenote to synch with Scrivener so now I can carry words EVERYWHERE I go... this is either awesome or really bad, I'm not sure which).
> 
> ANYWAY. Thank you for being here for the ride, and for your incredible comments. The next update will be on Sunday, September 29th. See you then!
> 
> Oh, and for those who don't know, I have [a tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com/). In case anyone wants to visit me there. Drop me an Ask if you'd like and introduce yourself.


	41. Chapter 41

One day passes quickly in a blur of plans and phone calls. Stiles thinks he has it under control until the moment that he touches the door and hears his daughter’s voice.

“Daddy?” Molly’s voice is shrill, upset and angry. As Stiles sinks to his knees, her eyes flash bright red, and she throws her arms around him, tiny claws digging into his shoulder. “ _No_ , Daddy. You can _not_ go outside. You said we have to stay _in_. He’s out there. I can smell him.”

Stiles swallows hard and closes his eyes, holding on tight. “I have to, baby. I promise, everything’s going to be okay. Do you see this awesome pack we have? They are _amazing_ , and you know Derek’s not going to let anyone hurt me, and he’ll be with me.”

Her tears are wet on his shoulder, and he feels like crap for making her cry like this. He’d tried to hide the plans they’d made over the last twenty-four hours, but every phone call was another chance to trip up and she’d figured it out.

His four year old daughter _knows_ that he plans to walk out the door and right into the waiting arms of the alpha wolf who bit her, and who had her mother killed. And she’s a wreck. “Baby, this is the only way we can do this,” he murmurs. “I need you to be strong and stay here with Isaac and Scott. Help them protect Allison and Lydia and Danny. Can you do that for me? Can you protect the human members of our pack?”

The look she gives him is pure Stilinski stubborn. “ _You_ are a human member of the pack, Daddy. Stay inside. I’ll protect you.”

Pure Stilinski stubborn and plenty of Stilinski smarts as well. Stiles sighs, smiling ruefully. “I can’t. This is my part in protecting the pack. And Derek has my back, I promise. There are a lot of things planned right now, and I need you to trust me, okay? I need you to stay with Isaac and Scott.”

He gathers her back in, hands clutching at her small back as he holds her close, his nose buried in the crook of her neck. “There’s something else you can do, baby,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “When I go out there, _scream_. I need you to scream like you’re terrified. Scream like when Mommy died. Scream so they can hear you. Can you do that for me?” He wants to sell this, wants her to scream like she’s terrified so Maynard knows he means it. He wishes he could do this without her actually _being_ terrified, but he’s not sure that’s going to happen.

Her eyes are wide and bright when Stiles pulls back. He touches her lips, keeping her from speaking, and she nods quickly.

“You’re my best girl, Molly,” he murmurs, and kisses her on the cheek, lifting her up to hug her one more time.

As soon as he hands her to Scott, she does as he asks, voice shrill when she shrieks his name. She struggles, small feet kicking, arms reaching out, and it takes both Scott and Isaac to hold her. It isn’t just an act, Stiles knows this, and that makes it even harder to pull open the front door and go through it without looking back.

When Derek closes the door behind them, it doesn’t silence her screams. If anything, they grow louder, more anxious, and a moment later he can hear tiny fists pounding on the door, and shouts among the others to hold it closed.

It makes his heart ache, but it’s the only way he can see it working. They’ve planned as much as they can, laid anchors in places he’s not sure will hold, but they have to try. This is their last stand and is _has_ to work.

Maynard waits at the edge of the wards, his arms crossed, the corner of his mouth lifted in a small smirk. “You’ve made a decision.”

“It wasn’t that difficult,” Stiles says. “If it’s me or Molly, you know I’ll do anything to keep her alive and safe.”

“You are more like your beautiful mother every day,” Maynard murmurs. He shifts his stance, gestures for Hunter to lower his bow. “She died so well for you, Weaver. She knew we would come for you, and she died to save you. She spent herself, every bit of energy, forcing us to forget you. So that we would have to spend years relearning your existence, and find you. But I remember you now. I remember what you were like, standing there in that hallway as a boy. Watching me. You had no idea then that we would come to this.”

“If I could destroy you I would,” Stiles says, voice flat. “If I had any other choice, I’d take it, but right now, this is my best option.”

“And if I tell you to cut the cord so that your pack cannot remember you?”

Stiles smiles tightly. “I would.” It’s not that simple, but Maynard doesn’t know that. He doesn’t understand that some cords can’t be cut, some cords are impossible to break because they have already burrowed beneath the surface and have protected themselves. Stiles reaches back and _knows_ where Derek’s hand is, their fingers threading together like they are woven, and he squeezes. “All I ask is a chance to say goodbye.”

He turns slowly to face Derek, his other hand coming up to touch his face. They didn’t discuss this, but Stiles knows that everyone is aware of their relationship now. There is no point in hiding it. Stiles is pretty sure that if he actually planned on becoming Maynard’s pawn, the first thing he would be asked to do is cut those cords, and the second would be to destroy Derek Hale, and watch the Hale pack fall without him.

There is no way in hell that Stiles will let that happen.

He leans in, untangling their fingers so his hand can skate up, skimming over the muscles of Derek’s arms until he reaches his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, because that’s what Maynard expects him to say. He presses his lips to Derek’s, falling into the kiss, letting it sweep him up for a moment as he clings to him, pouring his heart into every breath. When it ends, Stiles has his hand over Derek’s heart and he feels it beat, thudding rapidly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, as if they had privacy despite the ring of werewolves on the sidewalk outside the wards. “I love you.” The words are for show, but they are no less true, and Derek’s eyes flash in response. The corners of Derek’s mouth lift, baring fangs, and Stiles has to turn away.

He squares his shoulders and walks forward, feeling the wards pick at his skin. He stops on the edge, feeling them surround him, cradling him tight as he pauses before pushing through. “You can have me on one condition,” he says quietly.

“Of course.” Maynard spreads his hands, and that has to be enough for Stiles, even though he can hear the rising growl behind him.

He takes those final steps and pushes through the edge of the wards, feeling them part around him and weave together once more behind him. He is close enough now that he could reach out and touch the man who almost ripped his throat out; the mostly-healed bite throbs on his shoulder in response. Stiles smiles tightly. “It’s not a difficult condition. You’ve got me. All you need to do is leave Molly alone and ally with the Hale pack. Make peace, and I’m all yours.”

Stiles hopes and prays that everyone is in position and that he isn’t out here alone. Not that he’d ever be completely _alone_ , not with Derek growling from inside the wards. But he doesn’t want Derek taking on Maynard’s entire pack on his own. He sees the moment that Maynard’s expression twists into a snarl, lip curling.

“No.” His voice is low and Stiles wonders if the way it echoes is an alpha ability, adding depth and darkness to his tone. It freezes Stiles in place, just long enough for the scent of earth to rise around him before the stone beneath his feet cracks and he stumbles forward, right into the arms of Hannah Corann.

He barely has a moment to breathe before the first arrow goes over his head, slithering through the air with a soft whine.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Stiles drops to the ground, which he’s pretty sure is the only safe place to be with Argent hunters hidden somewhere. Hannah comes with him; she may have a good hold on him, but he’s heavier and stronger, and when he lets his weight just drop she falls at the same time. But she keeps her arms wrapped around him, and something’s tangled his feet so he can’t get free.

The scent of earth grows stronger as Stiles kicks against whatever is holding him tight. She can’t kill him. _She can’t kill him_. He has to hold on to that thought, _knowing_ that the druid can’t do permanent damage or else her alpha will probably kill _her_ in retribution.

Of course, there’s still Molly, so maybe Maynard would forgive her.

Crap.

Stiles twists, putting an elbow into Hannah’s ribs. He can’t focus on the weave right now, but he can still fight, and he’s thankful that he’s only dealing with the druid. She’s only human, like himself. If he can distract her, she can’t try to choke him again with her magic, any more than he can grab onto the weave. But he can’t see what else is going on either, just hear the snarls and snaps and growls that surround him. He tries to count the number of wolves involved and he comes up with four, maybe five, but he can’t be sure. He can’t be sure of anything, pinned to the ground as he is.

Hannah rolls until she straddles him, and Stiles feels something crawling up his legs, twisting and tight around his ankles. Her hands are on his chest, and for just a moment he thinks this might be a good thing. He reaches for her, but she just smiles at him as her eyes go dark, and he tastes dirt.

Stiles chokes, coughing up dirt that can’t possibly be in his lungs, but it’s there and it hurts, scraping on the way out. “Fuck you,” he manages to say, threading his hands between her arms and pushing, shoving at her elbows until she cries out from them bending the wrong way and her hold on him breaks. It doesn’t stop the feel of earth invading his lungs, but it lets him pull away from her and roll to his hands and knees, pressing his palms against the cement of the sidewalk.

He needs to get up. He needs to _fight_ and to help his pack, but he can barely breathe. There are spots around his vision, and somewhere in the distance he hears Derek yelling his name. He tries to raise one hand, to say _I’m all right_ , but he has to slam it back against the ground when he feels the world tilt.

Stiles is okay for just one moment until something slams into his back and he pitches face first into the cement. It smacks against him, digging into his cheek and jaw with furious stone teeth, knocking the remaining wind out of him. He thinks he screams, but he’s not sure because teeth are digging into his shoulder, pulling viciously at the skin, and he can feel the burn of an alpha’s bite.

It twists into his weave like a thick black net and just like that, it’s all he can see. There’s a dusky brown layered over him, seeping into him, and the black tendrils that reach into his blood, spreading swiftly through him, trying to change him.

He can’t handle this, not both at once. He can’t do this and pay attention to the fight. He can’t do this and hold up his defenses, the wards he placed on everyone else, the fragile bits of weave anchored in people who don’t have magic of their own.

The broken ends of cords slip from his fingers and Stiles falls back into himself, scrambling desperately to pick up the shreds of his own weave. He feels them fighting against him, the burn of the bite and the push of Corann magic. He sinks into it, twisting cords together and ripping others apart, trying to force this alien mess out of himself.

It aches brutally, and he feels the energy it saps from his soul. It is exhausting work, and _she_ makes it worse by pushing at him every second, trying to force her magic into him.

“Isaac!” Allison’s voice cuts through the air, panicked, and Stiles can’t mistake Scott’s growl or the sudden increase in the noise of the fight. 

Lydia sounds almost calm when she snaps, “Really? Those shoes were _not_ knock-offs, dear, and that was my favorite pair of jeans. Do you _really_ need to gnaw on my leg like a bad puppy?”

Stiles would laugh if he could, but sound is fading. A hand lightly brushes his cheek, and he hears Hannah whisper, “Sleep. When you wake up this will all be over, and you won’t have to think about the Hale pack any more. It will be so easy for you to forget them, to just let them go. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure Molly’s safe. We’ll raise her together. She has so much potential, Weaver. We’ll help her shine so bright that she blots out the stars.”

Stiles realizes that they are all completely _nuts_. Maynard has surrounded himself with people that are as psychopathic as himself. _Of course_ Peter allied himself with them. It only makes sense when he looks at it from the outside. Twenty/twenty hindsight, as if he could see clearly now. As if he could _think_ clearly now.

The world is fading around him, breath stuttering in his chest. He tries to inhale, and it gutters out.

The world goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there and Happy Sunday. I haven't even have breakfast yet but I want to get this posted before the day gets busy, so I'm sorry for any incoherence. :) Thank you all for reading and your amazing comments. If you're curious, this past week I finished the draft and it clocks in at 100k. It's hard to believe that it's come this far and all that's left are some final edits and posting it all for you to read! You guys are amazing, and you have given me so much energy along this road since February (you are also amazingly patient and I adore you!).
> 
> The next part will be posted on Wednesday, October 2nd. See you then!


	42. Chapter 42

Stiles wakes up slowly, tugged into consciousness by someone’s hand on his arm. He tries to jerk it away, but he’s too weak to move and a voice says quietly, “If you do that again, I’m going to ask Derek to hold you down while I finish checking your IV. It’s _okay_ , Stiles.”

The voice doesn’t set off a fight or flight reaction, and he eases slowly, blinking into the light of a bright white hospital room. “Mrs. McCall?”

“I assigned myself to your room.” She sets his hand back down on the bed and checks the line to the IV, then quickly changes one of the bags. “I’d say this isn’t how I thought I’d see you again, but I’m honestly not all that surprised.” Her hand is light against his forehead, her voice still quiet. “You never did have a great sense of self-preservation. None of you do.” She gives him a rueful smile. “I honestly thought this was all behind you.”

Stiles rakes through his memories, fuzzy as they are. “Scott talked to you. When we were stuck in the house, he talked to you because you remembered things. And Chris talked to you. He made sure you’d be here, in case any of us were hurt.”

“I remembered a lot of things, Stiles.” Her fingers stay on his forehead, light and soothing. “Like the time you stopped off at my house and said you didn’t know why you were there, but you just needed to talk. And you showed me pictures of a beautiful baby, and a young woman, and you said you’d just had coffee with Danny but he wouldn’t remember. And you looked so sad when you told me I wouldn’t remember either. And I didn’t, until the other day.”

The memory is there when he searches for it, waiting to be rediscovered. She’d served him cocoa, even though he’d already had coffee, and he’d held it for the warmth more than drank it. He hadn’t had anyone to talk to in so long, and she was so much like a mother figure for him. He talked her ear off then, because he was _so proud_ of the amazing woman he was sort of dating, who also happened to be the mother of his child. And the baby… he remembered how scared he was. How _terrified_ to be a parent, and how much he wanted to tell Scott, but he couldn’t dare, because he wasn’t sure he could take it away again after. She’d raised Scott alone, and he thought maybe she’d understand that terror, so he let it all spill out.

“I sat in the car outside your house for twenty minutes afterwards,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to take it away, but I had to. I had to keep you safe, and I had to keep them safe. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not.”

He looks up at her, confused.

“I’m glad you came to me then. And I’m glad you had someone to talk to, even if we both had to forget about it after. You needed it, I could tell that.” Melissa glances off to one side and Stiles follows her gaze to where Derek is sleeping in an uncomfortable hospital chair, Molly curled against him. “Your daughter is beautiful. She looks like your wife, but I can see you in her too.” Her lips purse, amused. “Mostly in her expressions. She shouldn’t be in here, but I’ve bent a few rules.”

“Thanks.” His voice is gaining strength, and Derek twitches. “Look, there’s something I need to do before he wakes up, and if he hears me talking, he’s going to be waking up.” Stiles can’t even say how glad he is to see Derek there and safe. Both of them safe. But there are things he needs to look for, things he lost track of in the fight and when he went into the darkness.

In a way, he’s surprised to find himself here. Alive, free. A part of him had started to worry that they might actually lose the fight.

Melissa nods. “What is it?”

Stiles doesn’t want to say, but she has the stubborn look that he remembers. She was an ally when he was a teenager, so he takes her as that now, as an adult.

“I need to go under, into the weave. That’s the magic thing I do.” He wiggles the fingers of his unencumbered hand. “I was bitten by the alpha, and I don’t want to let it get into my bloodstream. The thing is, making sure I get it out might take more energy than I’ve got right now. Can you make sure that I’ve got extra nutrients being pumped into me?”

“Already done, at Derek’s request and Lydia’s insistence.” She touches one of the hanging bags. “Stiles, you need to know something first. You’ve been out for almost twenty-four hours.”

A day.

He’s been unconscious for a whole _day_ and he doesn’t know what’s happened. His lower lip catches in his teeth and he nods once sharply before he throws his senses wide and sinks into the weave.

In the background he hears the sharp gasp of Derek coming awake, the soft snuffling sounds of Molly as people move around and the bed sinks under Derek’s weight. Fingers tangle with his, holding on tight, and Stiles lets his senses sift through the weave that he finds around Derek. There are small blots, tiny black spots mixed with brown that are spattered all over him. Stiles shakes the threads and pushes them off, hears the hiss when he does so. It’s hurting Derek, but he doesn’t have time or patience to be gentle, he just wants this _soot_ off of him, out of his weave and safely brushed away.

Once Derek’s clean, Stiles retreats, working his way through the vivid tangle of threads around himself. He touches the ones that spread out, marking each one in his mind and ensuring that they are still there and strong. He notices that Jackson’s is thicker than before, tangled with his in ways he needs to look at later, but he suspects that’s the tangle of blood and shared interactions in the past that had more meaning than they ever realized. He can find the Argents now, those threads growing stronger, and Melissa McCall is also there. He touches each one of them, reassuring himself that his pack is safe before he lets his senses slide through his own weave.

He is covered in spattershot as well, the dots thicker and heavier than the ones that marked Derek. Black is a spiderweb over his shoulder and throat, but it pulses in place and doesn’t spread, more of a sickly gunmetal grey rather than the vivid darkness that it was when Maynard first bit him.

And it was Maynard that tried to rip his throat out; Stiles has no doubt about that. He touches the invading threads and finds them loose. They weave around and between his own threads, but they aren’t tangled irrevocably. He kept it from taking hold with that first panicked reaction and while it will take him time and energy, he can unweave the remains of the infection and cut it out. The dirt in his lungs is another matter, still rough and touching those spots makes him cough again until Derek helps him sit up and rubs his back.

“Fuck.” Stiles opens his eyes, voice raw, and glances over to see that Molly is still asleep, now in Melissa’s lap. “Do you have rounds?” Because he can’t imagine that he’s lucky enough that she can just stay here with them for as long as he needs her.

“I’m pulling rank and experience,” she says quietly. “I’m here off the clock, and assigned myself to your room only. The girls on right now remember how things were when you guys were in school and didn’t even try to ask questions. I think they’d rather let me deal with the weirdness.”

He smiles slightly. “Thanks.”

“Hey.” Derek touches his shoulder, fingers drifting above the bandages, gaze intense. “If I take these off, are you still hurt or has it healed?”

“Well, that’s one way of asking the question, but no, I am not a werewolf and as much as I do love you, I do not intend to ever _become_ a werewolf.” Stiles feels a stupid smile lift his lips at the way Derek just looks at him. He’s alluded to it before, but the only time he’s said it flat out, just like that, was right before he walked into Maynard’s not-so-loving arms. And Derek never did respond. Uncertainty takes over, and he has to ask, “I’m allowed to say that, right?” 

“That you don’t want to be a werewolf?” One eyebrow arches.

“That I love you.”

Silence stretches and Stiles tries not to think about the fact that this conversation is happening in front of his surrogate mother. He licks his lips and looks away, but Derek catches him, leaning in to press lips to lips, the kiss perfectly chaste and still somehow making Stiles’s heart race. 

“I love you too, you idiot,” Derek mutters, and kisses him again until Melissa clears her throat.

“Maybe I should clean the wound and change the dressing,” she suggests with a small smile. “And you can catch him up on what he’s missed. Now that we’re reassured that there’s a wound to clean.”

She stands slowly, cradling Molly close before handing her to Derek, who stands to take her. Stiles watches his daughter wrap her arms around Derek, snuffling slightly as she burrows in against his neck, kissing him before she snuggles close and continues to sleep. Derek sways slightly as he holds her, not sitting down again but stepping back to give Melissa room to work.

Stiles doesn’t want to watch, but he does risk a glance over, craning his head and trying to see the wound until she catches him and holds his head still, pointing him in the other direction. “You’re making this difficult,” she says. “Which I know is usual for you, but I need to work. It’s gory, you’re lucky to be alive, and I’ll take a picture before I put the bandages back on so you can see it.”

“I love how you get me,” Stiles grins, staring at the wall.

“I missed you,” she admits. She goes silent while she works, and Stiles needs something to think about other than the pain. He moves slightly so he can see Derek, stopping as soon as Melissa makes a disapproving noise.

“So. I know our pack is alive.” Stiles leads with what he figures is the good news. “When are you going to tell me the rest?”

“I don’t like the taste of druid blood.” Derek bares his teeth. “The Corann is dead.”

“Ripped her throat out with your teeth?” Stiles tries to make it funny, but honestly, it’s just a bit too close to home with Melissa cleaning his wound right now. And it’s not really a joke, not when Derek simply nods and Stiles can imagine the blood. He glances down and wonders how long it took them to wash it off of his skin, and who did it, because he’s pretty damned sure Hannah Corann was probably lying on top of him when she died.

He doesn’t blame Derek for it at all, and he’s actually kind of grateful. “I bet Scott wasn’t happy.”

“Scott couldn’t argue the body count.” Derek’s expression is serious. “Not when Del fell at his and Isaac’s hands. She was going after you and Isaac attacked her, and the Hunter shot him with a bolt laced with wolfsbane. Del was going to take advantage of it and kill him, but between him and Scott they took her down.”

“She’s gone?” It’s hard to believe, but when Stiles reaches out to touch her thread, it seems to drift into the distance, unattached. It’s only a memory now, nothing more. “I…” Tears prick the corners of his eyes. “I wanted to…”

Derek settles carefully onto the bed, Molly still cradled against his hip. “I know, but it doesn’t matter who did it. All that matters is that she’s gone, and she’s not coming after you or Molly again. Jackson took out the Hunter, and the Argents did their own fair share of damage. In all, there were four dead and about eight of Maynard’s wolves in custody.”

“And Maynard himself?”

Derek simply shakes his head, and Stiles feels tension curl in his gut again. “Oh,” he says.

“It’s been a day and we haven’t seen him. We have his wolves, we killed his Hunter, his druid, and his second.” Derek’s fingers tangle with his again, squeezing lightly. “If he knows what’s best, he’ll run for it. We’ve proven that we might be small, but we have strong allies and we aren’t a pack to be tangled with.”

Stiles doesn’t think it’s so simple, but he’s not going to poke at the threads to try to find him, not now. Not while he’s trapped in a hospital bed, an IV feeding into his veins and exhaustion seeping into his bones. So for now he just nods and figures they can discuss it later. He lifts their tangled hands and presses a kiss to Derek’s fingertips. “What else? What happened to Lydia?” He can’t remember specifics, but he does remember that she had somehow become involved in the fray.

“She came out with a crossbow that Allison gave her and started shooting, and when she realized her aim was off, she waded into the mess with a knife.” Derek rolls his eyes. “She was bitten and yelled at the wolf who did it. He was so shocked that she was able to take him down long enough to let one of the Argents immobilize him.”

Stiles snorts. “We make a good team. We might be a little strange and unusual in our tactics, but still a good team.”

“Yeah.” Derek shifts Molly’s weight, and when Stiles reaches, he helps Molly lie down besides him, curled into Stiles’s side. Derek watches them both quietly. “Scott and Boyd are looking for Peter’s grave to mark it. Nothing elaborate, just so we know where it is. I figured it’s only right.”

He was blood, and Stiles understands this. Derek’s relationship with his uncle was complicated, and never easy, but he was still the last of Derek’s blood and facing this isn’t easy. That’s why he took it away in the first place. “Hey,” Stiles nudges him. “You’ve got family, and you’ve got pack. You’re not going to be able to get rid of us.”

He feels a pat against his shoulder and a phone is held out so he can see it. She’s right, the wound is gruesome and gory and he really doesn’t need to see parts of his shoulder and throat looking like raw meat. He makes a face and pushes it back to her. “Thanks.”

She touches his shoulder again before moving away. “This is all set for another few hours,” Melissa tells him. “And right now, I’m going to step out to get something to eat, so anything that might be going on in here, I won’t know about it.”

“My daughter is sleeping on my side,” Stiles reminds her. “Nothing is going to happen.”

She shrugs. “And you’re in a hospital where a doctor could walk in at any time. I can unfortunately tell you from experience that that fact has never stopped my son or his partners, so…” Melissa raises her hands and backs up to the door. “I’ll just head out now. And I’ll knock when I come back.”

Stiles tries not to laugh, because it might wake up Molly, but he can’t help himself. It shakes his body, and it makes him ache, his lungs still scratchy and uncomfortable, but Derek joins him and Molly murmurs irritatedly. Eventually the laughter fades, and in the meantime Derek has managed to somehow stretch out on the bed beside him, Molly sprawled across both their chests.

“You know,” Stiles says quietly, “Maynard probably still wants me dead. And he probably also wants Scott and Isaac dead because in his own very weird, warped way, I think he loves Del.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Stiles.” Derek presses a hand against Stiles’s stomach and if they weren’t in a hospital room, with a kid, he might have a very different (and better) reaction. “If Maynard wants to get to you, he’s going to have to go through me. And if he wants to get to Scott and Isaac, he’ll have to go through Allison.”

“Which might be worse,” Stiles teases.

“Which is probably worse,” Derek allows, and Stiles laughs.

He still hurts, and his lungs ache with every breath. But Stiles no longer feels the pressure of being _chased_. The need to run has passed, and he can feel himself putting down roots. Not just the weave, but actually settling in.

For the first time in a long time, he can truly believe that he has a future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Wednesday! I sort of surprised myself when I realized that I had to post a chapter today. I feel like the week is just skyrocketing by now that I'm posting twice a week. Weird, huh?
> 
> SO CLOSE NOW. There are only four more to post after this, can you believe it? The next chapter will post on Sunday, October 6th. It might be late in the day unless I can get it done before I have to leave the house early. I will TRY to get it up in the morning, but I apologize if it ends up being very late that day. Or else I'll cheat and post Saturday night. We shall see.
> 
> Thank you for all your lovely comments!! <3 to all of you.


	43. Chapter 43

The day that Stiles walks back into the house, Jackson is there in the middle of the living room, sprawled on the sofa with his arm across the back. A woman sits next to him, leaning forward as she talks, hands moving, her pale hair yanked back in a ponytail that creates a cascade of curls down her back. She is hunched over her burgeoning belly, and Stiles remembers that Jackson said she’s close to due, but somehow he hadn’t expected Felicity to be someone that looks this _delicate_.

He stops inside the door and drops his suitcase, managing to get to his knees just before Molly barrels into him, throwing her arms around his neck. “Careful there, baby,” he murmurs.

“Uncle Derek said he was bringing you home and that you’re all healed.” Molly tilts her head, sniffing. “Are you healed? You still smell a little like the bad wolf. But you smell mostly like Uncle Derek.”

Jackson snorts, the sound cut off by the sharp tap of a slap against his shoulder. The girl next to him smiles and stands slowly, leveraging herself from the couch with a hand on Jackson’s shoulder. Molly dances excitedly.

“Daddy! This is Felicity and she’s going to be my cousin, sort of, well Jackson’s _your_ cousin so she said we could be cousins and her baby’s going to be my cousin. And I get to teach him how to be a wolf since I’ll know everything about it by the time he needs to know, right Daddy?” The torrent of words goes silent only for a moment as Molly grabs his hand and tugs. Stiles almost tilts forward, but he catches his balance and manages to come back to his feet with only a little help from Derek behind him. “Come on, Daddy. Come meet her and Jackson.”

“Oh, I already know Jackson, baby,” Stiles says dryly. “Did he move in when I wasn’t looking? Because I can’t think where we’ll put anyone else in this house unless people are starting to sleep on top of each other.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow, smirking at Stiles’s phrasing. “In case you haven’t heard, Lydia moved back into her room while you were in the hospital.” He shrugs one shoulder. “Felicity and I have been hunting for an apartment. At least for now.” His forehead furrows. “Lydia says she has a plan. Should that make me worry as much as I think it should?”

“If you would have worried when we were in high school, worry more now,” Stiles says. “Lydia is a woman on a mission, and you do _not_ want to get in her way. I take it my things are upstairs?” He glances at Derek, who nods. “Where’s Molly sleeping?”

“I have a cot in Lydia’s room!” Molly bounces, grinning. “We’re having sleepovers. She painted my nails.” She sticks her fingers out, showing off the bright pink nail polish. “But you need to meet _Felicity_.” She drags him forward and Stiles automatically sticks out his free hand, clasping the one that’s offered while he tries to take stock of the young woman in front of him.

She’s nothing like Lydia at first glance. Instead of resolve, she’s all sweet smiles and pale hair. Stiles doesn’t doubt that there’s more to her than lovely features; Jackson’s an ass but he seems to like women with substance. She’s a little taller than he thought when she was still sitting, but she’s built like a slender elf that has currently swallowed a watermelon. She places one hand on her belly, and flushes brightly. “Soon,” she says. “My official due date is in a week.”

“I didn’t ask.” Because commenting on her size would be rude and Stiles has _some_ control over what comes out of his mouth.

She tilts her head. “You were going to.”

Stiles revises his opinion and takes Felicity out of the _merely human_ category and pops her into the mental box of _not a clue_. “I’m betting you and Lydia get along like you were born to be sisters,” he says, partly because it would serve Jackson right and partly because they are both enigmas in their own ways.

“They do.” Jackson sounds resigned. “They’ve been shopping, along with Allison. I’ve spent more money on things for the baby in the last twenty-four hours than I have since we found out Felicity was pregnant.”

Derek’s hand on his hip reminds Stiles that he’s still standing and that if recent history remains true, that won’t last long. He lets Derek steer him to one of the chairs and he sits slowly. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m still weak, and they weren’t sure I should be leaving the hospital, but I couldn’t stay there any longer. Not with Molly here, and Maynard still out there.”

The name drops into the room; Jackson’s eyes lower, and Felicity makes a noise, both hands on her belly. Derek perches on the edge of the chair and he glances at the stairs. “They’re all here. Jackson, go get Danny and Allison. The others will be up from the basement shortly.”

It doesn’t take long before they are assembled in the living room, taking up more space than before with the addition of two more to their pack. Stiles has an arm around Molly as she curls on his lap, and he leans into Derek’s hold. Lydia is on the floor by his feet, and Danny sits on the floor nearby with his laptop on the coffee table. Jackson and Felicity have taken over the couch again, and Jackson is idly rubbing one of Felicity’s feet while she leans back. Isaac, Allison and Scott somehow squeeze into one chair, while Boyd stands behind the sofa, leaning on the back of it.

Scott clears his throat and looks at Stiles.

“What?”

“You called this meeting.”

Stiles blinks. “No, actually, Derek did. But I guess I’m the one who name dropped so sure, I’ll talk. Because as long as he’s still out there, I don’t want to end the wards on the house. And you can all walk through them, sure, since he’s not keeping us under siege anymore, but we still have to be beyond careful at this point. He’s more than likely out for blood. Which means we need to do something to increase pack strength.”

“The bonding ceremony you mentioned,” Jackson says. “I’ve already said that I’m in, as a Weaver. What does it involve?”

“Blood, weave, and people.” Lydia taps the paper she has in front of her. “Danny and I have done extensive research into the history of all three families—Hales, Weavers, and Argents—and have developed a ceremony based on the information contained in Stiles’s grandfather’s book and based on the history of the fracture between the families.”

“What?” Stiles looks down and nudges her with his toe. “Why haven’t I been given these details yet?”

Lydia smiles sweetly. “Because Derek growled at anyone who implied they might possibly tell you something while you were still in the hospital. However, you’re home now, and this is pack business, and I suspect you consider it _urgent_ business.”

Stiles has to agree. “Keep talking.”

“You were right about your uncle,” Danny says. “One month before Joseph was due to be born, your grandmother was killed. Adam Hale found her body first, and when the others found him, his claws and teeth were bloody, and her body was in shreds. There was no chance for her survival or for the child’s.” Danny keeps his voice even, but Stiles hears the emotion behind it. He has to think the records they searched through weren’t easy to read. “According to one record we found, Adam offered to heal her—she was still breathing when they were found. But Sam refused.”

Stiles closes his eyes, but he doesn’t reach out for the memory. He’s sure it’s there somewhere, waiting for him to put it back into the weave so that he can have it for reference. But he doesn’t want to find it now. He doesn’t want to be that overwhelmed. “So, was that the first break?”

“No.” Danny waits until Stiles looks at him before he continues. “It started with the death of a Hale. Adam’s younger sister was killed by one of the Argents. They claimed she broke the code, but Adam didn’t believe them. The break started there.”

“What did she do?” Stiles asks. Derek is stiff behind him, his fingers sliding over Stiles’s shoulder, touching the bandage as if he needs to remember the bite.

“I don’t know,” Danny admits. “And I don’t think it matters. What matters is that the Argent who killed Aria Hale was married to Genevieve Maynard. Genevieve was best friends with Sam’s wife and helped push a wedge between the Hales and the Weavers long before Sam’s wife was killed.”

“So they’ve been there since the beginning,” Derek says quietly. “They pulled this pack apart.”

“Fine. Then we’ll put it back together.” Stiles starts to push himself up, but Lydia leans back heavily against his legs and Derek holds him down. “It’s going to require me moving to do it, guys.”

“Right now?”

“Can you see a reason to delay?” Stiles jabs his finger, pointing at each person. “We need to make sure Maynard doesn’t decide to kill Scott and Isaac over Del. We need to make sure no one kills Felicity like my grandmother died, for the sake of another unborn Weaver. We need to protect Molly. We need to seal this pack together properly, and if we wait, we just give _him_ a chance to regroup and figure out how to come get us. So yeah. I think we should do it right now.”

“Do you even know what you need to do?” Jackson rolls his eyes and Felicity swats his knee until he offers a fake smile in apology.

“Yes.” Lydia flips to a different page in her notebook. “I can’t say what the pattern of the weave will look like for certain, but I’ve sketched several potential formulae that should integrate with the other patterns we’ve discussed in the past. I’ve allowed for a triangular protection—one that includes all angles of the Argents—but also allows for the splintered fractal-like nature of the werewolf side of the pack. It also includes the places where the angles cross—the Argent/McCall alliance, and of course, the Hale/Weaver alliance. It uses the points which remain single as anchors within the primary space. In the end, we’ll be stronger for it. _Much_ stronger.”

“Do you have the strength for this?” Derek’s tone is quiet, firm. Stiles has no doubt that if he says no, Derek will want to stop him.

He laughs softly. “I’d lie and say yes, but no, not really. The thing is, I don’t think it uses my energy. When our grandparents did it, it was a blood bond. Like becoming blood brothers. The energy is drawn, at least in part, from the blood of everyone involved. It’s not just me weaving; I’ll be using _your_ weave. This isn’t a shield, or a ward. It’s a bond. We’ll be tied together, all of us, into one pack. So if anyone doesn’t want to do this, now is the time to say it.”

Allison pushes to her feet. “Let me go call my dad. I’m not sure if everyone’s going to be willing, but he’ll be an axis point for the Argents.” She nudges Scott. “You should call your mom. She might be human, but she’s pack, too. Are we forgetting anyone else who isn’t here?”

“I don’t think so.” Stiles glances down at Lydia, who is checking names against a list in her notebook. She looks up to meet his gaze and nods, so he says, “Yeah, we’re good.”

He has to dislodge Molly in order to stand, and he takes it slow, glad that Derek moves when he does and braces him from behind. “Tell them all to meet here in an hour. I’m going to take a shower and eat, and I should be ready to go. If anyone’s got an aversion to blood, get over it. We’re all going to be mingling ours soon enough.”

“I have an idea for a best way to do that,” Lydia murmurs. “If you don’t mind being given a script.”

“Right now I trust directions you’ve written more than going off on my own,” Stiles tells her with a fond smile. “We’ll go over it while I eat. After I shower.”

The pack scatters to get things ready, Lydia organizing those who don’t have to make phone calls, while Stiles makes his way slowly up the stairs. Everything takes _time_ right now, tired as he is. While he was in the hospital, Melissa told him that it might take longer to heal this time since it’s so close to his last injury. Stiles figures it has something to do with the way he couldn’t stop after he was bitten the first time, he never fully recovered, he just faked it. And now that he’s lost all that blood again, and had to flush out the infection again, it’s wearing him down.

But this time he also has Derek to help strip his clothes off and help him balance in the shower. He can lean back and let Derek scrub him clean, and there’s nothing sexual about it, just comfort. “I could fall asleep like this,” Stiles says softly, his head tilted back against Derek’s shoulder, eyes closed. 

A soft growl before Derek asks, “Tell me honestly, is this going to hurt you?”

“Honestly?” Stiles sighs. “I don’t know. No instruction book, remember? But I really don’t think it’s going to make things worse. If we’re lucky, it makes things better. We’ll all be linked. I think it might mean that the wards will hang on all of us, not just me. When the break happened before, my mom felt the Hales like something that was _against_ the weave that she knew. This puts us together. Your wards are mine and vice versa. We’ll all become one thing. In a non-creepy way, I hope.”

“You sound exhausted.”

“Walking across the parking lot at the hospital was harder than I thought it would be.” It takes a lot to admit that he’s weak, that he needs help, but Stiles is trying to learn to do it now. “After we’re done with this ceremony, I’m ready to sleep for a week.”

Derek’s hand drifts over the bite, finally without a bandage but still healing. He drops a gentle kiss on the back of Stiles’s neck. “I’ll watch over you when you do. And so will Molly, I suspect.”

“Yeah.” Stiles has a soft smile for his daughter, and that’s enough to get him moving because he wants to get this done for her. So she can be safe.

It takes time, but Stiles manages to get dressed and back down into the kitchen for an overflowing plate of pasta and sauce. Molly sits as near to him as she can, small feet kicking while she eats her own meal, and Lydia sits on his other side, notebook spread out on the table so they can go over the charts. Stiles talks to himself as he eats, memorizing the brief ceremony that Lydia has sketched out.

“I’ve laced the knife with just enough wolfsbane to keep everyone from healing immediately,” she tells him. “The one I’m worried most for is Molly.” Her gaze shifts to the small child, and Stiles looks down at her as well.

“It’s going to hurt,” Molly says, and Stiles knows she has been listening. “I’ll be okay. It’ll make the bad man stay away.”

“You are an amazing kid,” Stiles tells her, kissing the top of her head and giving her a quick hug. “Let’s go get everyone.”

The furniture in the living room has been moved to make room for the entire pack to sit in a circle. Stiles arranges them specifically by pack affiliation. Molly sits between Derek and Jackson, her expression solemn as she watches Stiles in the middle. Felicity leans back against Jackson, using him as a pillow, and one hand tangles with Lydia. They go around from there, Scott and Isaac and Allison, then Chris Argent and two more men, and finally Boyd before it circles back to Danny, then Derek. Stiles kneels in the middle, the knife clutched tightly in his hand, and he opens his mind to the tangled weave that spreads around him.

He has a silver bowl and he reaches for Derek first, taking his hand and slicing across it, letting blood drip into the bowl. “With blood I bind us,” he says as firmly as he can, all too aware of the thrum of power already rising in the room.

“With strength I protect us,” Derek responds.

“Me too!” Molly shoves her hand at Stiles, flinching when he cuts her as quickly as he can manage, droplets of her blood joining Derek’s.

“Strength and thread to tie us,” Jackson says, Felicity echoing the same words as they give their own blood. 

“Someone needs to bring the mind,” Lydia says crisply as she joins.

“And heart,” Allison says. “Our hearts are tied, our strength bound.” The triad gives their blood together, followed by the Argents.

Boyd’s expression is solemn when he gives his strength, and Danny looks a little pale.

The bowl hisses when his blood drops in, and steam rises, and Stiles blinks. That’s not the reaction he’s expecting, but he can’t deal with that now. Is _anyone_ actually just _normal_?

“I will bind us in the weave.” He rushes the words out, knowing _something_ is happening. He reaches out into the weave, tugging threads around them all, tying them neatly together.

Derek’s head lifts and he growls, low and deep. Stiles turns towards the door; it creaks open, light seeping in from outside. He reaches out as Derek moves. “Don’t! Don’t break the circle!”

There is a moment of tension, then the remains of the wards drop heavily around them, the weave shattering as Stiles struggles to gather new threads to himself. He slashes his palms and thrusts both hands in the blood, mixing it roughly. He needs to finish this. He needs to protect them again because he hadn’t expected it to all come crashing down before he could build it up more strongly. His eyes close and his breath shudders.

The growl is the only warning they get before someone hurtles through the door, tackling Isaac and ripping him away from Scott and Allison. Someone screams and Derek leaps.

Stiles is on his feet as Derek falls, blood spraying out over the room. Molly screams and he grabs her, holding on tight. He is frozen in place when all hell breaks loose, and all he can think is that Maynard is here, and it’s his own fault for letting him in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's early! It's still Saturday here but I have an awesome house guest and we are leaving early tomorrow to go play with yarn, so chances are I wouldn't get to post tomorrow until late. So happy Sunday on Saturday night!
> 
> The next chapter will post on Wednesday, August 9th. See you then!!


	44. Chapter 44

Stiles cradles Molly to him, his wet hand at the back of her head, keeping her face pressed against his shoulder. There are spatters of Derek’s blood in her hair, over his own arm and face, mixing with the blood of the pack that drips from his fingers. He blinks and tries to see straight, tries to parse what is happening in front of him.

He can’t. He _can’t_. It’s too much to absorb, and his eyes keep drifting back to the spreading pool of blood on the floor where Derek lies. Molly whimpers and Stiles makes himself look away. He has to trust that Derek is alive, that he will _heal_. 

He steps back, trying to move out of the fray, trying to count combatants. He can’t see Danny and hopes he’s safe, that he’s gotten out of the way rather than gone down and bleeding on the floor ( _like Derek, no can’t think about that)._ He spots a flash of red, Lydia’s hair as she creeps close to the walls, trying to circle around the werewolf Allison fights with two knives flashing in her hands.

Three werewolves, plus Maynard… oh _crap_ , where’s Felicity? Stiles looks around quickly and doesn’t see her, but when he throws his senses open, he can _feel_ her and the baby, in the corner.

_Still not human_. He doesn’t have time to deal with that now, sinking further into the weave.

_(Derek’s alive. He can feel the cord that binds them in the weave)._

He sucks in air through lungs that are far too tight. Scott and Boyd fight one wolf, with Scott standing over Isaac’s crumpled body _(also alive, threads still bright)_. Scott’s expression is furious and feral, his claws flashing when he draws blood. 

Lydia jumps out, knife flashing as she strikes at the wolf Allison fights, distracting him long enough for Allison to draw blood. Lydia’s laugh in response is short, sharp and vicious; she exchanges a determined grin with Allison.

The Argents have the third wolf.

Jackson is alone with Maynard.

Stiles sucks in nothing, holding on to what little oxygen he has. He can’t do anything _physically_ , not with Molly in his arms, but he has the weave. He has only the vaguest of ideas what he’s doing, but the bond _started_. He can touch each of these people, and he _does_ , reaching out through the weave. He can feel the thrum of it, the way it is unfinished and shattered, struggling to hold around them. He grits his teeth, knowing he needs both hands to work.

“Baby, I need your help,” he murmurs. “I’m going to shift you to my back and I need you to stay there, and to hold on tight because I can’t hold you myself. And you need to look out to see if something comes after us that I can’t see, okay? Can you do that?”

“Uh-huh, Daddy,” she whispers. “Can I bite the bad man? Is he going to hurt Jackson too? I _like_ Jackson.”

“Let Jackson fight him, baby.” Because that’s all he needs, Molly dashing into the fray to protect her pack. He has to think about his daughter first, Derek second, and everyone else comes after. “He’s going to protect Derek for us.”

She scrambles like a monkey onto his back and holds on tight enough that Stiles feels like it could strangle him. At any other time he’d ask her to loosen her hold, but he can’t right now. Instead he bites his lip and throws his senses wide open.

The bright shine that rebounds from Felicity is almost blinding. The child she carries is _definitely_ a weaver. Looking through the weave, he can see the bundle of threads that are her and the baby in the corner, and she flashes into view for him physically as well, curled with her knees bent and her back as tight against the wall as she can manage. Her eyes are glazed, staring at something Stiles doesn’t see, and her lips are moving, fingers tangled tightly together, knuckles white as she says something Stiles cannot possibly hear.

She seems to be safe, the weave tight in a knot around her, and Stiles whispers a silent thank you for the instinct of an unborn child to protect the womb it lives in. The others… he needs to do what he can, when the bond he’d been creating is only partly finished.

He starts with the tangle around Derek, then Isaac, layering strength over them as best he can. It isn’t a proper ward, and it isn’t Lydia’s squiggle, but it’s _something_ , and he hopes that it will hold to keep them safe while they can’t defend themselves. They are alive, but it would be far too easy for that to change.

He shifts to Jackson next, who hasn’t been tangled with them for long, but there is a bond already in their shared blood. Stiles catches his lower lip in his teeth as he reaches into the threads, tugging bits and pieces from all around them, weaving them tightly together to give him some of Allison’s speed, some protection, a little of Scott’s calm and Boyd’s strength. Jackson is already fierce on his own, a fresh confidence in the way he fights, as if he’s learned something in the years he’s been away from Beacon Hills. By all rights, he should be losing to Maynard, but he’s not, and Stiles pins just the smallest bit of hope on that.

For the rest, he doesn’t worry about building shields, simply pours every bit of strength he can into the weave that is already shining around them. The wards are a bright tangled mess, but he can feel them _working_ , feel the way claws try to tear through them, the way Allison’s hand moves through while the wolf’s claws are slowed.

He’s helping, Stiles thinks, but he’s not sure how long he can hold it up. He takes a step back and sinks down to his knees, making sure they are enough out of the way to stay as safe as they can. He is more stable on his knees, one hand on the floor, giving him three points of balance with Molly on his back. It is already taking more out of him than he thinks he has to give, fresh from the hospital. But there is a beat to the blood that they’ve already joined, and he can feel the iron binding this place to Derek, his blood spilled across the floor.

Tongue peeking out between his lips, he clings to what he can hold and prays to stay conscious.

Lydia shouts and the wolf she is fighting turns towards her. Her hand slices through the air, held tight like a knife, and strikes him just behind the ear. He twists away from the pain and Allison takes advantage, her knives sliding up beneath his ribs. She rotates one and blood spills out. His mouth opens, eyes wide. She grins and whispers, “Wolfsbane.”

When she pulls the knife free, he drops.

Scott hisses. Hesitates. The man he fights lashes out, claws brutal as they whip through the air, almost in Scott’s face before Boyd knocks him back. Boyd growls, stomps forward, but the wolf doesn’t give ground.

There’s a moment’s pause and Stiles sees the resignation in Scott’s eyes. The sorrow and acceptance. Stiles swears he hears Scott whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Boyd grabs hold of the werewolf, twisting his neck before Scott slides his claws into his chest. Stiles can see the moment Scott reaches the heart, the moment it stops beating and Scott _knows_ that he has killed. Boyd lowers the wolf gently to the ground and Scott goes with him, still linked claws to heart.

Stiles misses how it happens with Maynard, misses the moment when it all _ends_. He is too busy watching his best friend _kill_ , seeing how his mess has changed his friend’s life. When he finally thinks to look away, the room is silent except for harsh breathing, and Jackson crouches over Maynard’s body, head bowed and claws bloodied.

Jackson growls, the sound growing to a roar as he leans back, howling into the silence.

Molly shifts her grip and Stiles twists to catch her before she can run to her cousin, before she can face him down. “Not now, baby,” he whispers. “Not now.”

There is a flash of red in Jackson’s eyes, a snarl that is more feral than human. Then Felicity is there behind him, her hand on his shoulder, and the wolf falls away with a touch. Jackson slumps, breath heavy and ragged. “Oh, fuck,” he mutters.

Lydia cocks her head, looking at the two of them. “I approve.”

“Melissa’s coming.” Danny stands in the doorway, the phone in his hand. “I mean… I know most people here can heal on their own, but I thought it couldn’t hurt.”

“We’ve got a few humans,” Chris points out. “And a some of this blood is ours.”

Stiles is still kneeling on the floor. He should stand, but he can’t manage the energy, so instead he crawls around the bodies to get to where Derek lies. He tries not to think about how there are bodies of _their people_ here on the floor. Isaac. Derek. One of the Argents lying far too still and quiet. He sucks in air and focuses on Derek, because that’s all he can do until he knows for certain… Derek groans softly and Stiles relaxes.

“I’ll help, Daddy.” Molly wiggles her way between them, her small hand careful against Derek’s cheek. She doesn’t seem to care about the blood, and Stiles mourns just how much of her childhood has been lost to this.

He glances at Maynard’s body. It’s finally over.

“You need to finish.” Lydia crouches behind him. “Do you have enough energy? Do you need something? Can it wait or is too much of a mess?” Her hand is light across his shoulders, gentle and soothing, but Stiles can’t take comfort from it right now.

“I need to finish,” he echoes. “Maynard’s dead, but… I can’t just… we need something. We need to be a pack.”

It’s funny how he can separate out the blood in the room into pack versus other. He knows which sacrifice belongs to _his_ people, and which can be purged, will be washed away in the morning as if it never existed. “Melissa should have been here,” he murmurs. “She’s pack too. When she gets here…”

Lydia probably says something, but Stiles doesn’t hear it. Instead, he drifts, only partially processing the movement around him. They let him stay curled on the floor with Derek and Molly. His daughter makes a small noise when Isaac is moved to the sofa—they are definitely going to need new furniture after this—but she stays with Derek when given the choice. Someone presses a bar into Stiles’s hand and he eats without looking, barely tasting the chocolate and nuts, or the sports drink he washes it down with.

It helps, at least a little.

He feels the change in the weave when Melissa arrives, and he reaches out to tug on her threads and bring her in line with the rest of them. Lydia offers Melissa the bowl and knife, and she willingly gives her drops of blood.

When Lydia places the bowl on the floor in front of him, Stiles can feel the way the blood sings with power. He touches the stain that is Derek’s blood, and he knows he needs it, that this will make them stronger. This is _Derek’s_ pack. Hale. Weaver. Argent. McCall. More angles, more ways to fit together neatly. A stronger bond as Stiles works, fitting it all together and laying it back out, around the house and around the people.

It is no longer a wall. It is a calm net, a faint shimmer of protection that moves and breathes with the people it holds. It will grow and change as they do, and it will pull power from their allegiance.

It belongs to all of them, together.

Derek moves, and Stiles leans down, pressing his lips to Derek’s in a slow, chaste kiss. “You missed all the fun,” he murmurs.

“Because being attacked first thing is _not_ fun,” Derek agrees, words slow and quiet. “What happened?”

“That’s a story for when you’ve had some rest and more healing. For now, let’s get you upstairs and into bed.”

“He’s going to be grumpy while he’s healing,” Molly says, and Stiles does his best not to laugh.

“Probably, baby.”

“Can I stay with you?” She looks at Isaac, then back up at her father. “I need to go do something. But I want to stay with you and Uncle Derek, ok? Please? I don’t want to sleep with Lydia.”

“Okay.”

Molly rushes over to Isaac and kisses his cheek and pats his shoulder and Stiles sees the momentary flash on her arm as she tries to leach his pain away. Isaac assures her that he’ll be fine, but Molly looks wary.

Stiles takes the time he has while she is occupied to help Derek up, wedging an arm under him and trying to balance when neither of them has any real ability to stand. Derek is staring at the floor, where Maynard still lies.

“Who killed him?”

Stiles glances at Jackson who is sitting in the corner with Felicity, head in his hands and breath still rough. “That’s a story for later,” he decides. “Right now, you have a date with a bed. Let’s just work on getting you healed.”

Because everything else can wait. They’re where they need to be right now, and they’ll figure out the rest when it comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, and happy Wednesday. It has been a hell of a week already, and I don't have much to say except thank you. Do you realize that this time next week I will be posting the epilogue and it will be all over? Yeah, me too...
> 
> The next chapter will post on Sunday, October 13th, from my campground. :) Last camping trip of the weekend. Last Sunday post. Awww. Thank you all so much for being here. You (and your amazing comments!) mean the world to me.


	45. Chapter 45

There is a part of Stiles that thinks he shouldn’t be this tired, and another part that isn’t at all surprised when he wakes up in bed, Derek still stinking of blood, with Molly wedged between them, her small hand over Derek’s heart. She mutters when Stiles moves, but he needs to check for himself, looking over Derek’s wounds.

After all, some wounds don’t heal, and those made by an alpha are among the worst.

But behind the dried blood, the skin is pink and new, and Derek breathes easily as he sleeps. Stiles notices when the tenor of that breath changes, the way Derek slips from sleep to wakefulness, and the way he holds his breath for a moment before opening his eyes. “Hey,” Stiles says quietly.

Derek pushes himself up, and Stiles checks his back quietly, running his fingers over fresh, new skin. Molly squirms, and Stiles picks her up, moving her out of the way so she can keep sleeping while he talks to Derek quietly. “You okay now?”

“Better than I was when I was bleeding out,” Derek says dryly. “And whichever one of the pack is hovering outside the door can come in or go away any time now.”

The door nudges open and Jackson stands there, lips pressed thin and jaw set tight. “So,” he says.

“Derek has no idea,” Stiles offers.

“As if things weren’t complicated enough.” Jackson pushes the door closed, then grabs the desk chair, swinging it so he can sit on it backwards, looking at the two of them. “I killed Maynard.” His tone is flat and matter-of-fact.

“So that was you.” Derek’s gaze is even. “Someone had to, and it couldn’t be me. Congratulations.”

Jackson shrugs one shoulder. “I couldn’t have done it without Felicity. She’s good at reading body language, and she’s got good fighting instincts. We actually met when I started doing martial arts. She was coaching me the entire time.”

Stiles laughs because he doesn’t even know where to begin with that explanation. There’s the idea of delicate Felicity being a martial arts sensation, and the fact that now he knows what Felicity was whispering while she was hiding like a ninja. Not to mention the whole ninja aspect. And of course, he has to deal with what he already knew: Jackson killed an alpha, which means now _he’s_ an alpha.

“I hate to be the one to ask this, but what does this _mean_?” Stiles nudges Derek with his shoulder. “Can two alphas peacefully coexist in one pack?”

“Larger packs often have smaller splinter packs, like the Maynards.” Derek hasn’t let his gaze drop away from Jackson. “But yes, they can stay in the same space, too. Scott and I have lived together for years.”

Stiles blinks. “Scott’s not an alpha.”

“Close enough.” Derek finally looks at Stiles, the movement slow and deliberate as he stops staring at Jackson. It is a gesture of trust, Stiles realizes, to turn his back on another alpha even that much, especially one who is both pack and not pack all at once. “Scott has himself and Isaac and Allison. It’s like a pack within a pack.”

“Felicity and I talked.” Jackson lounges against the door, his body language tight but attempting to be relaxed. “We’re going to hunt for an apartment for now, that plan hasn’t changed. We’re staying in Beacon Hills. After all, we’re pack now.” He waits until Stiles meets his eyes. “We’re family.” A small head tilt to acknowledge it. “I agreed to be bound, and we’re not walking out on it. Besides, since someone keeps pointing out there’s no instruction book, I’m going to need help when my son decides to break things he doesn’t understand.”

“Instinct doesn’t kick in that young or I’d have made you forget me when we were in kindergarten,” Stiles points out. “But I’ll be writing that manual, with Lydia and Danny’s help. Since repopulating the Weavers seems to be up to us, we ought to give our grandchildren something to go on.”

Jackson shudders. “I’m about to be a father. Do _not_ talk to me about grandchildren.”

This has so much potential. Stiles grins. “What, you’re not ready to think about your son growing up and making the same mistakes we’ve made? Falling into relationships young, bringing new weavers into the world?”

“I’d like to get past the part where I don’t want to be as much of an ass as my father was,” Jackson says dryly. “Particularly since you seem to be leaving this repopulation on my shoulders. I don’t see you having more kids any time soon.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Stiles is thankful for the interruption. Derek’s fingers are tight on his arm in reaction to Jackson’s statement, and Molly is starting to wake up. Jackson reaches over to pull the door open and Lydia looks in.

“Good, you’re awake. Stiles, breakfast is ready downstairs, and you should eat. Molly, honey, Danny’s down there if you’d like to help him with your cereal.” She glances from Stiles to Jackson. “What, did I interrupt something?”

“Everything’s fine.” Stiles waves at the door. “Go on, I need to talk to my daughter, then I’ll send her down for breakfast.”

Lydia sighs. “I knew this would happen.” She tosses a granola bar that lands on the end of the bed. “Eat _something_. I am _not_ going to be your mother, Stiles Stilinski, and Danny says that if you don’t get down there for pancakes, he is _not_ going to make sure some are left. Once they,” she gestures down the hall, “manage to crawl out of bed, you can be certain they will be devoured.”

“Is Isaac okay?” Molly asks worriedly.

Lydia’s lips purse, expression pinched. “He’s fine. Very fine. Healed overnight. Allison and Scott are taking care of him.”

Jackson frowns while Stiles snorts. He can see the moment when Jackson actually _listens_ and his cheeks go faintly pink. “I’m going down to breakfast.”

“Tell Danny I’ll come down for cereal,” Molly says seriously. “But not yet. I need to talk to my daddy and my Derek.”

Lydia blinks and a slow smile blooms. “I’ll do that, honey.” She grabs Jackson’s shoulder and pulls him from the room, closing the door with a thud behind them.

“Why is it that she can deliberately send us upstairs but she can’t deal with those three?” Stiles has to ask, and Derek laughs because it’s not something they can really talk about with Molly curled up between them. Instead, Derek palms Stiles’s nape and tugs him closer, kissing him lightly, and Stiles doesn’t care that they both have morning breath and probably taste like something died, not to mention that Stiles aches from his injuries and over-exertion. That granola bar actually sounds like an excellent idea, in just a moment.

A small palm rests against his cheek and the pain eases as Molly furrows her brow in concentration. After a moment she turns to Derek and does the same until the lines relax between his eyes. She smiles slightly before she starts to worry at her bottom lip in a gesture Stiles recognizes as his own.

“What is it, baby?”

She manages to crawl between them, curled across both their laps, her head resting against Derek’s chest. “I miss Mommy,” she whispers. “And the bad man is dead, but I still miss Mommy.”

Oh fuck, this was supposed to get easier, but Stiles supposes it never really will. Not until she’s older and Mommy is a faded memory that manifests in PTSD nightmares. On the other hand, Weavers have a strange way of remembering things, so it’s possible that Molly will never lose the things that happened when she was tiny. “I know, baby,” he murmurs, meeting Derek’s gaze. “It’s okay to miss her. You’ll always remember her, and I’ve got a few pictures and I remember now where I stored other things when we started running. We’ll get all those things back, all those pictures and books and things that were part of our lives before, I promise.”

“But you can’t bring back Mommy,” Molly points out. “And you don’t want to.”

That’s like a knife to the gut. Stiles flinches, and he can’t miss the way Derek does too. “It’s not like that. I miss your mom like crazy, and if I could bring her back, I would. I just… I love Derek and he’s a part of my life. He was a part of my life before I ever met your mom, and he’s still part of it.”

“I like Uncle Derek and you can kiss him because you love him.” Molly punctuates her statement with a loud smacking kiss to Derek’s cheek. “I like him a lot. But is it okay if I miss Mommy, too?”

Stiles is teary-eyed when he touches his daughter’s cheek, his voice hoarse when he speaks. “Yeah. It’s okay if you miss Mommy. She was my best friend and I miss her too, and I wish she could meet Derek and our whole pack here because she’d like them a lot. Her and Lydia and Felicity and Allison? They’d rule this house, and you’d be right there with them, because you have them all wrapped around your little finger.”

Molly nods solemnly, then a slow smile sneaks through. “Can I go see Isaac?”

“Um. Not now.” Stiles glances at Derek, and sees that his serious expression is about to break into laughter instead. “Isaac is still resting. When he comes downstairs, you can check on him then, okay? Let Allison and Scott take care of him for now.”

“Okay.” Molly throws her arms around Stiles’s neck and hugs him hard. “I’m going to go help Danny make breakfast, and I want to talk to Felicity’s baby in her tummy, because he’s going to be my cousin when he comes out and I want him to know what I sound like. I love you, Daddy.” She only hesitates a moment before she throws herself at Derek, hugging him hard. “I love you too, Uncle Derek.”

Derek swallows hard. “Love you, Molly,” he murmurs.

She slams the door on the way out, feet pattering down the hall before she thuds down the stairs.

“Four alphas,” Derek points out. “Me, Scott, Jackson, and Molly. I think we officially have more alphas than betas now. But the humans may outnumber us.”

“I’m reserving judgement on exactly who is human and who is not until later.” Stiles can accept the idea of martial arts training for now, but he’s going to figure Felicity out properly eventually. Not to mention Lydia’s immunity. Then there’s whatever happened with Danny’s blood. He has a feeling that everything he can learn about their unusual pack will only help strengthen the bond. He reaches for the granola bar and peels it open, breaking off a piece to offer to Derek before taking a large bite for himself.

Derek’s palm is at the nape of his neck, fingers curled lightly against his skin. “You need to eat something more than a granola bar.”

“Mm,” Stiles agrees, because his stomach is growling and cranky, despite the small offering of food. “But I don’t think I’m in danger of passing out, and while I still ache from head to toe, especially in my shoulder, I’m thinking that as long as those three keep going down the hall, we’ll have plenty of privacy upstairs. And as you’ve pointed out before, Molly’s got plenty of people taking care of her. At least for the next five minutes.”

Derek laughs. “Five minutes? Is that all it’ll take?”

Stiles stretches out, fitting his body along Derek’s. “If I wanted to do more than lie here with you, it’d take a _lot_ longer than five minutes. You nearly died last night, as far as I could tell, and Maynard tried to kill me not all that long ago. Let’s save the aerobic exercise for when we’re better healed. For now, though, a little naked cuddling wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“Lock the door,” Derek says, and Stiles rolls out of bed to do just that. By the time Stiles turns around again, Derek has already stripped and is lying back on the bed. While Stiles thinks this ought to be the most arousing thing he’s ever seen (and okay, it _is_ ), it’s also the most comforting. He quickly strips off his own clothes and climbs under the covers, whimpering slightly when Derek nuzzles the bite in his shoulder, rubbing scent into it. He understands the instinct all too well right now, and he’s more than happy to spend the next five minutes (or ten, or twenty) just sliding hands over naked skin, merging their scents and reminding each other that they aren’t going anywhere.

They’ve come through hell to the other side, and finally, they can rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This is it. This is the end of the primary story and the next chapter is an epilogue. Not that the epilogue isn't a part of the story! It wraps up a few more little things. But yeah. Anyway.
> 
> Hello from camping and happy Sunday. I'm getting this posted while most folks are still asleep and the WiFi actually works. The epilogue will post Wednesday morning (October 16th), and then we'll be done. Thank you so much for still being here, and watch this space for some conversation and announcements next week. <3 to all of you, for reading, and for commenting. Take care!


	46. Epilogue

“Do you ever wonder what Lydia has up her sleeve?” Stiles doesn’t even say hello before he starts talking; he knows it has to be Derek coming into the house, even if he can’t see clearly from the kitchen. He’s standing at the sink, his sleeves pushed up, hands up to his elbows in suds as he tries to scrub out the pots and pans so he can get dinner going. The house is peaceful; it’s been quiet all day while Molly’s at her new daycare and everyone has scattered back to jobs.

When Derek presses in behind him, hips locking Stiles in place, hands on the edge of the sink, Stiles just sways back into the touch. A mouth finds his neck, nipping until Stiles whimpers at the touch.

“I came home early,” Derek murmurs, “and you want to talk about _Lydia_?”

Stiles doesn’t care that his hands are wet. He reaches up, carding his fingers through Derek’s hair, keeping him close as he cranes his neck, offering more space. Derek takes what is given, tongue sliding along the vein, teasingly slow.

“When you do that, I can’t think at all,” Stiles manages to say, because whatever it was he was thinking has completely fled. “Did you have a plan in mind here? Does it involve me getting my ass wet on a soaking wet sink?”

“How’d the job hunt go today?” Derek murmurs, tongue dipping into the hollow of his collarbone, scruff scraping against soft skin.

“Ngh.” Stiles makes a noise and pushes back. “If you want to hear about my day in any coherent fashion, you need to stop doing that.” When Derek laughs and pulls back, Stiles turns to face him, wet and soapy hands sliding over Derek’s shoulders as he leans in for a slow kiss. “Mm. Okay, um. I am now officially listed as an on-call substitute teacher for middle and high school level in four towns, including Beacon Hills, and I’ve signed up for courses to get my masters in education. So yes, chances are I’ll be distracted and busy _somewhere_ most days. If I’m lucky, someone goes out on maternity leave and they pull me in for a few months.”

“The idea of you warping young minds should worry me.”

Stiles swats his chest. “I’m raising a kid, remember? I think I’ve done decently with Molly. And Jackson keeps asking me for advice with his new peanut, so I must be doing something right.”

Peanut. _Hah_. Samuel Jay Whittemore was over ten pounds when he was born, and came out looking more like a three month old baby than a newborn. Stiles remembers holding Molly when she was barely seven pounds and brand new, and Sam seems giant to him. Jackson’s got it easy, as far as he’s concerned.

“It’s cool, seeing Jackson as a dad,” Stiles admits. “He’s besotted. And Molly insists that the baby is _her_ Samuel. As if Felicity and Jackson had nothing to do with it.” He taps Derek on the chest. “Of course, she also insists that you’re hers, too, so she obviously likes to play favorites.”

“You doing okay with her in daycare?” Derek has that light in his eyes that means the conversation is slowing… and Stiles probably has a finite amount of time for coherent answers. This doesn’t bother Stiles.

“She’s happy, and she hasn’t eaten anyone yet. She did growl at a little boy who took her blocks the other day, but we had a talk afterwards and there hasn’t been a repeat performance. I think it’ll help get her ready for kindergarten next year.” It’s hard to think about Molly growing up like this, that she’ll be five in the spring and starting school a year from now. Stiles is pretty sure he’s not supposed to feel this old before he’s twenty-five.

“You’ve done a good job with her.” Derek’s hand slides down the back of Stiles’s head, cradling the nape of his neck, fingers threading through the strands of his hair.

“And now I’ve got the pack to help.” Stiles nudges a kiss. “And you. I think it’s only a matter of time before she decides to call you Daddy Derek.” He sees those hazel eyes go wide as Derek pulls back, and Stiles reaches out to keep him from escaping. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No?” Derek’s voice is hoarse, questioning. “Just not what I expected to have in my life.”

“You have the squishy soul of a marshmallow.” Stiles shakes his head, a fond smile lighting his lips. “You just want to pull your family into your burrow and keep them safe. She’s family, and she knows it. Don’t worry. I’m not running away again.”

Derek stretches against him, face buried against Stiles’s throat, nuzzling the thick scar that still stains his skin pink and silver. Derek’s tongue traces the lines and Stiles feels the echo of that motion in the weave around his heart. It tugs, and he moans, arching into the touch, wishing they were anywhere but the kitchen. “What are the chances someone’s going to walk into this house in the next twenty minutes?” he manages to ask.

“Not good.” Derek sucks a spot on his throat. Stiles is pretty sure it’s going to leave a mark, but right now, he doesn’t care. He just wants to be wearing a lot less clothes and get to enjoy this rare alone time in a house that is full of pack more often than not. “Lydia’s doing whatever her secret project is, and she’s wrangled Danny, Jackson and Felicity into helping her. Boyd’s at his own place. Scott and Isaac are at work and Allison’s at her dad’s place.”

“Good.” Stiles pushes at Derek’s shirt, sliding his hands under it, shoving it up until Derek lifts his arms and Stiles can push it all the way off. He doesn’t get to lower his arms, waiting while Derek tugs his t-shirt off, and oh _fuck_ , partial nudity is _such_ a good thing. “Someday we are going to take a vacation where we can walk around naked all day,” Stiles mutters, nosing at Derek’s nipple, catching it in his teeth, waiting for the low growl when he tugs. “No one will interrupt us.”

“And we’ll chafe from too much sex?” Derek snorts softly. “C’mon. Upstairs.” He tugs and Stiles follows.

“Sure. We’ll save christening the kitchen for some time when we’ve planned ahead and stashed important useful things there.” Like lubrication, because while there are _plenty_ of creative things that Stiles can think to do without it, there’s one thing he wants more than anything right now.

By the time they get up the stairs, they are both completely naked, clothes scattered on the stairs to be retrieved later. Stiles kicks the door to what used to be his room closed and pushes Derek towards the bed. “Lie down,” he orders, grinning when Derek complies, stretching out on the narrow bed.

It’s still the same damned bed. There’s a new mattress on it, but other than that it’s still the same bed that Stiles slept in as a teen, where he used to get himself off most nights, where he slept when Derek was crashing in his room way back at the beginning. It’s the same bed they’ve slept in since restarting this relationship a month ago, and Stiles has a feeling that someday, when it goes into storage, he’s going to _miss_ this bed. It seems as much a part of them as the house and the weave and the pack.

Derek lies back against the pillow, his arms crooked behind his head. “Are you going to just leave me here?” he growls softly, and Stiles just looks at him and licks his lips.

“It’s not a bad view,” he says mildly. Because it’s broad daylight, the sun spilling in through the window to light Derek’s tanned skin. Derek’s already hard, his cock lying against his belly, long and thick. While Stiles watches, Derek lets one hand drift down over his chest to cup his balls, teasing at them for a moment before he takes his cock in hand and strokes.

It’s too much for Stiles to just _watch_. “Let me take care of that for you, big guy.” He crawls onto the bed, straddling Derek’s shins as he reaches for his cock, wrapping his hand around it for a firm tug. “Fuck,” he whispers, just before he lowers his mouth to take the tip into it. Derek groans, hips pushing up, begging for more, but Stiles holds back. He licks around the tip, presses his tongue into the slit to taste the salty drop, then he runs his tongue down the underside, along the length of the big vein. He licks back up like a lollypop, hovering near the tip, waiting until the moment that the growl becomes a whine, a desperate plea. Stiles gives it to him then, taking Derek’s entire cock into his mouth at once, groaning when Derek hits the back of his throat, nearly makes him gag.

He doesn’t have a lot of experience with guys; Derek’s the only one and those memories still feel new sometimes, even after a month, but he’s been learning quickly. They’ve both been learning, re-discovering what they like and how everything fits together.

Stiles’s favorite parts are when he can make Derek lose control. The moment when Derek shatters, crying out noisily, is his favorite, and he only sees it rarely. Most nights are spent being quiet and careful, with one hand over a mouth, trying not to make so much noise that the rest of the pack knows exactly what is happening. Times like this are a treasure, and Stiles intends to use it fully.

He swallows roughly, letting Derek fuck his mouth, his eyes watering as his cock stretches his mouth. His hand cradles Derek’s balls, roughly rolling first one, then the other, in his palm, squeezing gently until Derek groans, fists tangling in Stiles’s hair.

He could make him go off like this, he knows, if Derek let him. But those tight fingers are pulling at Stiles, dragging him off of Derek’s dick until he sits back, mouth wet with spit. Stiles licks his lips, and Derek follows the track of his tongue for just a moment. Eyes flash red, and that is all the warning Stiles get before he’s on his back, Derek’s weight pressing into him, a mouth at his throat. He is riding the thin edge of control, and Stiles can feel the teeth pricking his skin.

He loves it. He loves when Derek is rough and ragged and hungry. Stiles presses up, digging his fingers into the muscle along the curve of Derek’s spine just as teeth close over his shoulder. He feels the suction, the way Derek sucks a mark to life, leaving him red and aching.

Perfect.

Stiles whines slightly, a low noise in his throat, his knees falling to the side as Derek moves down his body. Stiles is sure he tastes of sweat from his run earlier, of spices from the kitchen… but Derek has told him again and again that he likes to find Stiles this way, to smell the day upon his skin and _know_ that _this_ is Stiles. Soft snuffling inhalations, then Derek’s tongue flicks out, tasting every bit of him from throat to collarbone to nipple. He moves lower, nipping kisses over Stiles’s abdomen as his fingers curve over his hips, pressing him down against the bed when Stiles tries to thrust up into his touch.

Sometimes it’s a game to see who will scream first. Stiles is pretty sure they both end up winning.

Derek noses in to the crook of Stiles’s leg, nose sliding between cock and thigh, licking at the deeply scented space, growling roughly as he rubs stubble against sensitive skin. Stiles reaches out to touch him, and Derek looks up, eyes flashing again and Stiles lowers his hand slowly. “What?”

“Let me take my time,” Derek orders, and Stiles just nods, because there is nothing he can do right now. Nothing that he would _want_ to change, as Derek’s cheek rubs against his cock like a cat rubbing scent against him. Stiles tries not to cry out at the sensation, but Derek does it again and a strangled noise escapes. The low growl approves, and when Derek does it again, Stiles is louder.

It’s not a hardship to let himself be noisy, especially not when Derek likes it so damned much.

Derek wraps his hand around Stiles’s cock, lifting it so he can nose beneath Stiles’s balls, licking him there, teasing at his hole with his tongue. Stiles wants to urge him on, wants to make him _hurry_ , because his balls ache and his dick is heavy and he just wants to get _off_ now, but he knows nothing is going to rush Derek. Not when he’s tasting, scenting, letting his wolf roll around in everything Stiles is.

He lets Derek push his knees wider, lets him lift his hips with a pillow underneath, spreading him open. Then Stiles closes his eyes and just gives himself over to the sensation of a tongue pressing into him, making him wet and opening him up. Derek mouths his balls, swallows his cock, works three lubricated fingers inside of Stiles, fucking him slowly until Stiles is talking, saying anything, _begging_ to be fucked because at this point he swears he’s going to lose it just from _thinking_ about it.

Actually _getting_ fucked is almost anticlimactic.

Derek slides in easily and leans on his elbows over Stiles, fingers stroking his cheek, spreading their mixed scent down to his throat. He paints spit and lube over Stiles’s heart, then kisses him messily as his hips slowly rock.

“More,” Stiles asks, and Derek complies, hips pushing harder, snapping slightly to fuck deep into him. Stiles twists beneath him, rotating his hips, making Derek go deeper, clenching around him until Derek growls and moves faster. The game is on, each driving the other to be faster, louder, noisier until they are both crying out and Stiles loses control first, coming without even touching his own cock, spraying over his chest. Derek inhales roughly and stiffens, body taut as he empties himself inside of Stiles.

Derek curls over Stiles when he’s done, lowering his tongue to taste the white drops on his skin, licking at them until Stiles squirms and pushes at him. “You’re heavy, dude,” Stiles murmurs as Derek pulls out and stretches next to him. “Someday I’m going to sleep on top of you after I’ve fucked you, see how you like it.”

“I’d love it,” Derek admits, and Stiles has to laugh.

“Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you?” It’s a wolf thing, Stiles knows, and Derek sleeps best when he’s surrounded by Stiles and their mixed scent. He nuzzles in close to Derek, giving him that as much as he can, while they drift in the aftermath.

Derek twitches just before Stiles hears the front door slam shut. “Oh fuck,” Stiles whispers. “I thought they were all _busy_.”

“I know what you’ve been doing!” Lydia’s voice calls up the stairs. “Jackson refuses to come in the house. Clean up and come downstairs.” She pauses, and Stiles can imagine her standing there with her head cocked, a faint frown wrinkling her brow before she adds firmly, “Now!”

“Which one of you is the alpha?” Stiles asks, and Derek makes a face. But they both roll out of bed and grab clothes before jumping into the shower to rinse off. By the time they walk down the stairs, they are mostly presentable, at least for a human nose.

Lydia sits on the sofa, papers spread out across the coffee table. She beams when she sees them. “Good, you showered, because we need to leave shortly. These papers need to be signed and back to the office by tonight.”

“What papers?” Stiles sinks down on the sofa next to her, sifting through what looks like descriptions of a house and a contract.

“We’re buying the house next door. Sign there.” Lydia taps a line with her fingernail. “We’ve formed a cooperative—remember the papers we all signed last week? It seemed to be the best solution. However, you and Derek remain the primary signatures, so I need you to take care of this before I can put the paperwork in.” She pulls another small packet out and opens to show the highlighted signature lines. “Here and here as well. This states that we are helping the elderly man next door purchase a smaller home on the quieter side of town. He’s actually quite anxious to move; he was aware of a remarkable amount of what happened here, despite our attempts to keep it under wraps. The neighbor on the other side remains completely unaware, but also willing to negotiate terms. Once they’ve found a house, I believe they will sell as well.”

Stiles blinks, because he had _no idea_. “This is your special project?”

Lydia pats his knee. “Yes, dear. This house is too small for our pack, particularly if you plan to ever have another child, or if Scott and Allison and Isaac decide they want to reproduce, which would require pinning Allison to one side of the continent, but I have a feeling that might be more possible if we have more space.” She tilts her head. “This is the paperwork petitioning for rezoning of these three lots. I’m beginning with the first pair, of course, and there will be a good deal of construction involved to morph three houses into one, but the lots aren’t large, and the neighbors are near enough. We may be able to use existing bones from the other houses, or they may need to be demolished and we shall simply add on to this one. I’m waiting to hear from the contractors who’ll be doing the work.” She smiles. “Surprise.”

Stiles glances at Derek and can’t read his thoughts, can’t tell what’s on his mind right now. Surprise is _definitely_ the right word. “So we’d all have space. Like our own suites.”

“Like my home did.” Derek’s voice is tight. “We lived there, all of us. Peter and Dawn and their kids. My grandparents. It’s the way wolves work best, all together with their pack. It’s perfect. It’ll be perfect.”

“Good.” Lydia’s smile is sharp but her expression softens when she reaches out to touch Derek’s arm where it lies across Stiles’s shoulders. “We need this. We need to have our family settled properly, and you need space. And some people need their space, too. Are you going to have more children?”

“This is not the time to talk about that,” Stiles says quickly. “We haven’t talked about it, or _how_ , considering we’d need to find a surrogate, which just complicates things.”

“Well, you may want to decide on your answer before October seventh, as that’s when the Alpha of the Maynard pack will be arriving, and that may well be a bargaining point.” When neither Stiles nor Derek says anything, Lydia sighs. “To use one of her pack—human or werewolf—as a surrogate,” she explains patiently.

“We understood,” Derek says. His hand is tight against Stiles’s shoulder. “At least we’ve got time before that council. That’s a peace we need, but we need more time before I’m ready to negotiate that. We need to present a united front as a pack.”

“We won’t have the new house ready by then.” Lydia shrugs. “It doesn’t matter; this living room will do well enough for a meeting. I’d rather meet them on our ground than rent a hotel room. However, they will need to stay in public housing. We have no room. I’ve settled Jackson and Felicity temporarily; they’ll be waiting until the neighbors on the other side move before they join the pack housing here. Even Boyd is considering joining us, if he’s able to have his privacy.”

“He will.” Derek reaches out, roughly palming her head and dragging her close to drop a kiss against her red hair. “Thank you, Lydia. I couldn’t ask for a better second than you.”

“I’m not—” Her voice trails off. “That’s Scott. Or Jackson, now that he’s an alpha.”

“As a wolf, Scott’s my second,” Derek says soberly. “When it comes to running the pack, you have your role. Danny’s the caretaker, you’re the organizer, Scott’s the conscience. I suspect Jackson might find his place as the enforcer.”

They’ll find their roles going forward, their proper place in this pack. It’s going to be more organized and at the same time, there’s a fluidity of _family_ that’s comfortable to Stiles.

“It’s going to be different when everything’s done,” he says quietly as he leans back against Derek. “But I love the idea. Thanks, Lydia. You’re brilliant, as always.”

“Thank you.” Her smile is sweet and pleased, and Stiles remembers why he loved her way back when, and why he loves her still, even though it’s different now. When he lifts his other arm, she fits herself neatly against his side, and the three of them curl together.

Five years ago, Stiles never meant to come home again.

Now he can’t imagine being anywhere else, because this is where he’s meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. So... this is it. This is the epilogue. The end of the story. It's over. And I'm like just... wow.
> 
> First and foremost, thank you to YOU for reading it. Whether you have been here since February, or you jumped in somewhere in the middle, or you've come in to read after it's all done, I want to say thank you for your readership and your comments. You are all amazing, and I wouldn't be here writing if it weren't for all of you. Well, I'd be over THERE writing, but it wouldn't feel as wonderful as it does. You guys rock.
> 
> Second, is it really the end?
> 
> This story is DONE. The story arc that I meant to tell with this novel is completed, and I'm actually super happy with it. BUT. This is a series, and I have always had fun writing side stories for backstory, and I would love to write more within this 'verse. Maybe not another novel (*grins*) but more stories. Which means YOU (yes, YOU) have an assignment.
> 
> Tell me what you would like to see!
> 
> Is there a missing scene because it was outside of what Stiles was paying attention to that happened during this story? Is there something that was alluded to but not shown on screen? Are there things in the history that you'd like to see? Future stories? Anything?
> 
> You can tell me here, or you can drop me an Ask at [my tumblr](http://tryslora.tumblr.com) and give me your prompts. If I can, when the end of the year comes, I'm hoping to write a few ficlets in this 'verse for the holiday season, as my gifts to y'all.
> 
> And if anyone out there wants to know what I'd love to see for the holidays (well, other than world peace, a cure for cancer, and an end to hunger and poverty), I'd love art. Pictures from this story would make my heart flutter. Seriously. Especially anything with Stiles, Derek, and Molly. Or maybe Jackson, Felicity, and their wee one. Or the happy triad. Or Danny patiently "fixing" Molly's cereal with her. Gah. ANYTHING. Seriously. I'm just putting this out there as a wish (definitely not a demand!!).
> 
> Anyway, I'm babbling now. I'll be taking prompts all along, but I make no guarantees on when they get written. But I will faithfully record every bunny in my bunny folder so that when I'm looking for something to write and cleanse my palette (or ideas for fullmoon that fit those prompts!) I will have them.
> 
> So so SO many <3 for all of you. Thank you for being along for the ride, and for trusting me with this story. Love to you all.


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